


Never Never Land (A Loving Compilation of Incomplete Kaisoo Fics I Will Never, Never Finish)

by strange_seas



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, F/M, M/M, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:34:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25840690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strange_seas/pseuds/strange_seas
Summary: These are /not/ WIPs, because the term "work in progress" denotes that someday these things will be finished. They won't -- I've moved on from them forever -- so please don't ask me what happens, or how they end. I just wanted you to have them, because in 2020, everyone deserves a present. And because, even though I see them daily on every single social feed I own, and religiously follow every single schedule of every single member, and wax wildly poetic about how much I love them to every single person I know... I still miss Exo so, so much.andyesiamworkingonsomethingnew
Relationships: Do Kyungsoo | D.O/Kim Jongin | Kai, Jung Soojung | Krystal/Kim Jongin | Kai
Comments: 12
Kudos: 33





	1. Perfume

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ex-lovers Jongin and Kyungsoo try not to fall back into their old ways as Kyungsoo prepares to leave the country. For good, this time, Jongin thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Kaisoo  
> Genre: ex-lovers!au  
> Rating: N/A  
> Length: 1,900 words

“I saw something interesting on my feed today,” Kyungsoo says, sipping his coffee. The steam from the mug fogs up his glasses—horn-rimmed, square-framed, with impossible smudged lenses. Jongin picked them out for him last year, when Sehun snapped the old ones by sitting on them accidentally.

“Your feed, huh?” Jongin’s mouth goes all crooked. “Look at you, Mr. Social-Media-Is-For-Stupid-People.”

He plucks the glasses off of Kyungsoo’s face without so much as a _may I?_. It’s familiar territory to them, this absence of boundaries. Kyungsoo is only momentarily distracted before he takes another sip of coffee, squinting as Jongin wipes the lenses clean with the sleeve of his sweater.

“I only got on Instagram because you begged me to,” is Kyungsoo’s dry response. He uses a sickeningly sweet voice to do his best (worst) Jongin. “‘Do it for me, hyung, please? I’m so lonely in London, I hate the rain and I miss your cooking. Please? Hmm?”

He looks ten kinds of cozy today in his winter outfit, layers of soft camel and woolly fuzz. Jongin would consider petting him were Kyungsoo not the wolf-in-sheep’s-clothing incarnate, all bite and barbed tongue.

“First of all, I didn’t beg you.” Jongin scrapes off a stubborn little spot on the left lens with the edge of his nail. “I was wine-drunk, and you know that just makes me whiny.”

Kyungsoo hasn’t finished with his impersonation. “‘Instagram is…like Gmail~’” He puffs out his lips and slopes his brows, eyes wide and innocent. “‘Like Gmail, but with a live feed of Google images built in, and lots and lots of memes you’ll love, hyung, pleaseeee~’”

“Second of all,” Jongin says, ignoring him completely, “you were happy to open an account for me. Don’t even front. As soon as you got used to it, you wanted me to Story at least once a day and make sure my face was in it.” He slides the glasses, defogged and polished, back onto Kyungsoo’s nose. “ _Your_ words.”

It must seem like Jongin is more annoyed than he is, because Kyungsoo snags his fingers before he can take them away.

“It’s such a pretty face,” Kyungsoo reasons, pinching Jongin’s thumb. “Try not to be pissed at me, Jongin.”

“Try not to flirt with me, Kyungsoo,” he counters, light and easy.

“Kyungsoo- _hyung_.” Kyungsoo’s voice is so deep. So patient. “Don’t be mean to me, pretty.”

Jongin rolls his eyes, but his face is warm when he pulls away. Kyungsoo still compliments him all the time—makes a point of it, really—but Jongin’s never managed to build up an immunity to it. “What was the thing on your feed, hyung?”

Kyungsoo grins, using his thumb and middle finger to square up his glasses. “It was a video about how smell can make you remember things just the way they happened. There’s this artist-slash-scientist in New York who makes perfumes that smell like people and their memories, and in the video they captured how she does that.”

“How?” Jongin picks at the chocolate croissant on the plate between them. The pastry melts inside his mouth.

“She takes items that smell like a specific moment—like the shirt she was wearing the day her boyfriend left her, or the panties she had on the last time she was turned on—”

“This is a real thing?” There are crumbs all over Jongin’s lips.

“Yes, this is a real thing.” Kyungsoo picks off the largest pieces and feeds them to him. He tries to brush off the rest, but Jongin leans out of his reach. Just because. The air under his nostrils smells like Kyungsoo’s cologne. “Anyway, she collects things like that and soaks them in a solvent, and then the juice she’s left with goes through some sort of distillation process so she can preserve the scent.”

“That’s awesome,” Jongin murmurs, the taste of Kyungsoo’s skin lingering on his tongue. Butter, chocolate, gentle ex-boyfriend.

“I thought you’d say that.” Kyungsoo lifts a brow, pleased. “I’ll copy the link and send it to you later. I have it bookmarked because I thought you might want to watch it.”

Jongin exhales on a little laugh, refusing to acknowledge how sweet that is. “So you’re telling me you know how to bookmark posts now, but you still haven’t figured out how to DM them?”

Kyungsoo doesn’t even look embarrassed. “Too many little buttons.”

Jongin puts his elbows on the table and wipes the seam of his lips with a napkin. “Icons, hyung.”

“Icons.” Kyungsoo presses his thumb against the corner of Jongin’s mouth and pops it into his own a second later. “You missed a spot, baby.”

The fatigue of a long week has softened his eyes, so they pass over Jongin’s face like a caress. His mouth is plump and slightly parted. Jongin wants to take a picture of him, sitting in the middle of this tiny coffee shop with its yellow light and cream walls, looking warm and dreamy and golden.

_Baby._

He loves it when Kyungsoo calls him that, even though he shouldn’t.

“Park Chanyeol asked me out yesterday.” Jongin mentions with no segue; a warning to himself. Chanyeol’s text message is obscured in his phone inbox by a reminder from Kyungsoo to meet at their coffee place today and an invitation (also from Kyungsoo) to see a movie tomorrow. “Sehun’s friend. Remember him? From karaoke, and the gym. And PUBG at Baekhyun’s house.” Jongin hopes his voice doesn’t sound too high.

Kyungsoo confirms this with a hum, resting his cheek against his palm. His eyes blink steadily, following Jongin’s until they finally make contact. “How did you feel about that?”

“I don’t know.” Jongin submits to his gaze. Kyungsoo is so nice to look at. “How do _you_ feel about that?”

“I don’t know either,” Kyungsoo says quietly. His coffee steams in front of him. “But you know you don’t have to ask me that, or check with me, or anything.”

“I like checking with you.” Jongin isn’t ashamed to admit it. Kyungsoo gives him the tiniest little smile and nod: _I know you do._ It makes Jongin’s heart ache, and he shares this next bit as quickly as he can. “I said I would go, hyung. Just…just to feel things out.”

“That’s good,” Kyungsoo tells him in a noncommittal tone. But his eyes are a little tighter now, more strained, and they leave Jongin’s face to focus on the half-eaten pastry on the table.

A minute ago they were playfighting about SNS (a thinly-veiled excuse to flirt). The banter, the lack of boundaries—it’s all just a substitute for intimacy, and it always makes them forget the fact that they’ve broken up. Almost. Now Kyungsoo just looks sad, like a plush toy abandoned in a dusty street. Jongin’s emotions are a mixed bag: bittersweet relief at still being wanted, and slippery unease at having displeased.

“You hate the idea.”

“It doesn’t matter what I think.”

“But you _hate_ it.”

“No, baby, I—”

“I only agreed because you said we should try to move on. I don’t want to date anyone else either,” Jongin cuts in, in one breath. “Should I take it back?” He offers because he is willing, and he knows Kyungsoo will feel better knowing that.

Kyungsoo’s hands slide over his, swirling patterns on the backs of each one to soothe him. “I’m just jealous,” Kyungsoo says. “Force of habit.” He attempts another smile and looks twenty times worse. “Let Chanyeol take you out. He’s nice. He’s…in love with you.”

_So are you,_ Jongin thinks to himself, battling the magnetic pull of that unhappy mouth. _But you won’t do anything about it._

Of course he doesn’t say that, though. That would just mean a fight, and there’s only a month to go before Kyungsoo leaves for Los Angeles. Jongin has fought him on it too many times to count, and doesn’t have any fight in him left.

So he plucks Kyungsoo’s coffee cup from where he’s pushed it aside and places it back in Kyungsoo hands so that he can take his own away.

“Hyung.” Jongin takes every care to keep his voice casual, even though he’s curled his toes inside his shoes. “What do I smell like to you?”

Kyungsoo catches on right away, tense expression mellowing. “Like…fresh laundry. And Kiehl’s aftershave.” His voice is soft and deep. “Like my place, sort of. After I’ve just cleaned it.”

“So I smell like home to you,” Jongin jokes halfheartedly.

Kyungsoo gives him this look, like Jongin should really make up his mind if they’re going to flirt or not at all, and stick to it this time. Jongin _can’t_ make up his mind, so he stares back gloomily, picking at the edge of a paper napkin.

“How about me?” Kyungsoo asks, like Jongin knew he would.

“You?” Jongin tears tiny pieces of his napkin into halves, fourths, eighths, sixteenths, until he has a little pile of shreds. He imagines this must be how his heart looks inside his chest, and says, “You smell like me, hyung.”

When Jongin is nineteen, he gets a part as an extra in a nightclub scene in a drama nobody sees. That’s where he lays eyes on Kyungsoo for the first time, swaying to nonexistent music as the two leads scream at each other about infidelity in the foreground.

Jongin remembers mirth tickling the corners of his mouth as he surveys the scene: an incongruous assembly of energetic head-bopping and lethargic hip-swiveling. Two meters away, a very serious boy grinds respectably into his partner, and his deadpan expression is enough to make Jongin giggle.

The girl Jongin’ dancing with asks what’s so funny, her eyes sly and kittenish. Jongin manages a quick grin and excuse: _this club is popping._ She whispers back, hot and sticky against his ear, _then_ _show me your best moves,_ and Jongin’s giggles give way to embarrassed snorts. It’s ridiculous, getting hit on in the belly of this makeshift club with its windows blacked out by curtains because it’s three in the afternoon.

Somebody’s eyes are heavy on him. Jongin looks up—and it’s Very Serious Boy from two meters away. Jongin’s laughter dies in his throat. The amusement slides off his face in a slow drip, leaving him slack-jawed. The boy smiles at him—and _Jesus,_ he’s handsome. Dark, soft eyes and dark, bushy brows and dark, floppy hair, lips shaped like a kiss…

“Cut!” the PD yells, and Jongin’s brain unfogs. “Who the _hell_ is laughing?”

Later, having narrowly escaped death-by-PD, Jongin is helping himself to some juice by the craft service table when someone sidles up to him.

“Is there coffee?” Very Serious Boy asks.

He’s a whole head shorter than Jongin, and his skin is velveteen, like a schoolboy’s, but he feels older somehow. There’s a firmness about him; a sort of unflinching quality that makes him seem wise—even though, in his dark blue shirt and black jeans, he’s almost nondescript. If Jongin hadn’t been privy to that gorgeous face, that resolute gaze, that low, rich voice like melted fudge, he’s not sure he would’ve noticed this boy at all.

“Um.” Jongin’s eyes dart around the table. A finger worms itself into his mouth so he can gnaw the edge of a nail. Cute boys make him jittery, and there’s no coffee to be found. “Um, no, no coffee.”

“Would you like to get some?” Very Serious Boy asks, and Jongin swoons.

***

_Written in September 2019._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ani Liu is an artist/scientist who creates perfumes that smell like human memories and moments. More on that [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0albbru34uw) .


	2. Sun, Moon, and Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crown prince finds himself drawn to the one person he cannot have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Kaisoo  
> Genre: royal!au  
> Rating: R  
> Length: 4,000 words

This is how the wild boy comes to live at the palace.

Fall unfurls like a tapestry. The king and his men are out on a hunt, chasing a buck through the emerald woods. The dappled light of late afternoon glints through the gaps in the trees, blinding them. Yet the king pursues the majestic buck, praying to the Sun God for victory. His men follow close behind.

They reach a clearing at the edge of the woods. There is a river, one the king has never come across before. Beside it, stretched out lazily on the amber grass, is a pack of twelve wolves. Their blue-gray fur looks exactly the way it is described in the king’s books: like a stormy sky.

These are the wolves of the Moon Goddess. Untouchable. Undefeatable.

As soon as the buck skitters into their midst, the wolves spring to action. It’s a brief and brutal dance, the way these wiry creatures encircle the buck and slice into its body. Soon, the grass is soaked in crimson, and the air smells sharply of iron.

The king resigns himself to defeat. These wolves are sacred, both feared and revered. He murmurs to his men and strokes the neck of his steed, pulling at its reins to retreat.

That is when he sees the boy.

He is sitting on the cold earth, completely naked and covered in dirt. One of the wolves approaches him—a female, judging by her size. The fresh blood in her mouth is bright red, a stark contrast against her fur. Some of the blood drips from her jaw to the ground.

A chill steals up the king’s spine.

The wolf halts in front of the boy. She opens her mouth, revealing rows of blood-stained teeth. The king’s gasp is noiseless, and his body braces for the worst.

_Oh, gods, no—_

Then he hears the plop. It’s a small chunk of meat, dropped neatly into the boy’s lap.

Spellbound and petrified, the king watches as the boy leans forward. A pink tongue darts out to lick the wolf’s muzzle. The wolf licks him back, a single stripe up his filthy cheek. It can only be described as a caress. The boy giggles at her—a happy, burbling sound—and he picks up the food she has brought for him.

Only then does the she-wolf return to the carcass, where the rest of her pack is clustered, to eat her fill.

As soon as her back is turned, the king slides off his horse. He gets to the boy in two long strides, faster than his men can protest. He scoops the boy up in his arms. The meat slips from the boy’s fingers. Before he can scream, the king covers the boy’s mouth with his hand. Teeth sink into his palm as he leaps to his steed, the panicked faces of his men a blur on either side of him. But the little one’s cries stay muffled, and the wolves notice nothing.

As the king spirits him away, spurring his horse into a gallop, he chants a prayer to the Moon Goddess.

 _Protect me, Moon, protect this child, keep your sacred beasts at bay_

The child kicks and screams and thrashes and bites the whole ride back, sobbing into the king’s palm until he collapses from exhaustion.

But the wolves do not come.

It’s only later, when they’re all safely behind palace walls, that the king fully comprehends why he has done what he has done.

He is carrying the boy up to the royal chambers when he feels the trembling. The king looks down into the boy’s teary face. He is quiet now, but completely frightened—this wild-eyed thing with matted hair and mud streaked all over him. There’s still blood under his nails from clutching the meat, and blood on his lips from his affection towards the she-wolf. Seeing it makes the king’s heart twist.

This boy can’t be much older than his son, the young, sick crown prince.

 _No,_ the king thinks to himself, _he must even be younger._

The boy has his lips pressed together. His hands are balled up in the king’s robes, and he is trembling even more now, like a frightened little lapdog.

The king can’t help it when he drops a kiss to the boy’s forehead. Never mind the mud.

“Hush,” the king whispers in his softest, kindest voice. He imagines the endless emerald woods and the ice-cold river, the wolves with knife-like teeth and a child left alone to fend for himself. “You are safe here,” the king says, fondness and pity suffusing through his chest. “You are safe with us.”

The boy blinks up at him through long, wet lashes. He doesn’t say a word (the king is not certain he knows any). Nevertheless, the boy’s fists slacken their grip, and the tension in his body, still cradled by the king, gives.

The king places one hand over the boy’s two little ones. His palm smarts from the earlier bite, but his smile is gentle.

“Shall I take you to meet your brother?”

The crown prince has been ill since infancy. _Infection in the lungs_ , the medicine men tell the king and queen. _He will not live past a fortnight._

The queen cannot accept this. Will not. She wraps the prince in cashmere and tends to the fire herself so he is never chilled. She lays poultices on his chest and bathes him in healing salts and anoints him with oil from the holiest realms. She prays to the Sun God, to the Moon Goddess, to the gods of land and sea and air. _Spare my child,_ she implores them, her forehead pressed to the boy’s. And in her heart of hearts, so the king can never hear, she strikes a bargain: _Take me instead!_

After a fortnight, the queen falls terribly ill. _Infection in the lungs,_ mutter the medicine men. _She must have caught it from the baby._

It doesn’t take long. The king is with her to the bitter end, a broken man when she breathes her last. They have to tear him away from her bedside, wailing in anguish, when the body is prepared for burial.

The boy lives.

There are a hundred days of mourning. Noblemen from nearby lands pay their respects, bringing silks, gems, and rare blooms for the bereaved. They bring their daughters, too—some already women, others still girls. It is to remind the king of his options, should he choose to wed again someday. Life is long, and grief is only a season in it, fleeting as the autumn leaves. At least that’s what the nobles tell their daughters.

At thirty, the king is a young widower. A young father, too, with only wet nurses for counsel. To take a healthy new wife would not have been improper. It was expected of royalty to pass on their blue blood.

But five years pass, and the king never remarries.

In solitude, he rules the vastness of his kingdom. He tends to his son, who survives winter after winter. So weak, but so beautiful. The prince has the face of his mother—a warm, golden thing that adorns him like a crown. It is this face that endears him to his father; that makes him someone precious instead of a pariah.

The day the king brings the wild boy to meet him, the prince is propped up in bed. There is a nurse by his side, holding a spoon and an herb bottle. Her patient is covered in furs, a little pale, but his eyes are curious.

“Hello, my boy,” the king greets him.

“Hello, Father.” The prince dips his head. His smile is sweet. “You’re home.” His voice is raspy from the tincture he’s just taken. Elecampane and hawthorn, to soothe the damp in his lungs.

The king smiles back. Strokes him on the cheek. “You’re looking better than this morning.” Behind him stands the other boy, freshly washed and neatly dressed. “I want you to meet someone.”

The wild boy is looking back and forth between them, inquisitive and alert. His hair is clean now, but so long that it gets in his eyes. He rakes it away with one hand and tugs at the king’s trouser leg with the other. He wants attention, an explanation for all the strange sounds they are making.

The king smiles down at him, too. He sends a meaningful look in his son’s direction.

Curiouser and curiouser, the prince cranes to see. “A friend, Father?”

“Yes, my boy.”

Now his eyes are shining. “A friend for me?”

(Shining eyes, pale face, lonely heart.)

“Of course,” the king replies, softer than before. The prince’s face is as bright as a candle, and he’d looked just like his mother then. It’s enough to fill a man with memories. “Everything is for you, Kyungsoo.”

***

The young prince and the young wolf: that’s what the court folk call them.

They grow up together within the palace walls, completely inseparable. One is fine and frail, the other hardy and strong. Both are beloved by the king, and neither is inclined to displease him.

Not long after he arrives and the shock of his surroundings has worn off, the young wolf is given a name. The prince picks it out from a book of hanja.

Kim Jongin.

The first name is chosen for the gold of his skin. The second, more important name, for his kindness.

Jongin is illiterate and sorely lacking in decorum, and it takes a year for him to adjust to proper speech. But despite all this, he is kind to everyone. To every animal in the palace and out in the stables. To every servant who scrubs him and feeds him and schools him on his characters. To the prince, especially, whose poor health he seems to sense. Or scent.

He carries the prince on his back when they’re out in the garden, so the prince can touch the leaves on the walls and see the dewdrops up close.

He bounds through the hallways on all fours, just to make the prince laugh, but never too far to make the prince yearn.

He snuggles up to the prince in their shared bed when the prince is unwell, commiserating with his inability to play. He’ll bring a storybook instead, with more pictures in it than words, and read haltingly to Kyungsoo until sleep embraces him.

This is why the prince loves Kim Jongin: he has never made him feel like an invalid. Not when they were children, and certainly not when they grew into young men.

But that is only one reason.

Today, they are in the garden, under the prince’s favorite tree. It’s spring, and the breeze is warm enough for weak lungs. The tree bears a cloud of cherry blossoms, pinker than salmon, sweeter than perfume.

“Jongin,” the prince calls from his wheeled seat. “Will you help me?”

The young wolf is lying prone on the ground, a few paces away. He pushes himself upright, the movement sleek and limber. “Would you like to stand now?”

“Yes, please.” The prince extends his hand, naked of its glove. Jongin takes it. “I was hoping to walk a little, too, if you don’t mind it.”

Jongin places that hand over his shoulder and reaches for the other. “Of course I don’t mind.”

It’s muscle memory now, after a decade together. Jongin has reached what they believe to be his fifteenth year. (It happens on the same day as Kyungsoo; a decision made long ago by the king.) At fifteen, Jongin’s once-scrawny frame has filled out nicely. He is taller and broader than most of the twenty-year-olds at court. All Kyungsoo has to do is hold fast to his shoulders, and Jongin will do the rest with his arms. The prince is on his feet in moments.

“Thank you,” he tells Jongin, sliding his hands away.

Jongin catches the bare one before Kyungsoo can hide it from view. He inspects it, front and back. “Why did you remove your glove?”

The prince flushes. “Oh. Well…” His eyes are as wide and as warm as his smile. He can feel the weight of the leather glove in his left pocket where he’d stuffed it in haste. “No particular reason.”

Jongin inspects his face, too. “Your color has changed.” His eyes move slowly over the prince’s cheeks, his forehead, and the base of his throat, where the skin has flamed to pink. “Why?”

(He never did master the art of discretion, although he learned how to spell it and when a gentleman should employ it. He simply never understood the purpose behind it _._ )

Kyungsoo feels the muscles in his belly tighten. He lets his eyes drift, alighting on Jongin’s mouth before moving down to his hands. “No particular reason.”

As he is speaking, Jongin comes in closer. It’s as though he is Kyungsoo and Kyungsoo is the beading dew on a sprig of young ivy.

They’re making eye contact once again. The tips of their noses touch. Kyungsoo flinches; Jongin frowns. The prince makes a tactful attempt to draw away, but the young wolf is already cupping the back of his neck, keeping him in place. He rubs their noses together; once, twice, back and forth. Everything about it is deliberate.

There is a lump in Kyungsoo’s throat that he cannot seem to swallow. The fingers on his nape scratch over it lightly, full of comfort. Then he is released.

“You’re frozen through,” Jongin murmurs. The frown has reached his eyes. “I can feel it on your skin. Perhaps we should return to the palace. A fire would do you good.”

Kyungsoo shakes his head. “I don’t want a fire. Please, I want to walk,” he breathes, “with you.”

How brightly Jongin smiles at him then, like the Sun God himself is shining through his lips. Jongin has always enjoyed feeling wanted. Kyungsoo knows this very well.

On impulse, he reaches for Jongin’s hand again. He knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t help himself. It’s hot and dry, pleasantly coarse, the way it’s always been since they were children. Jongin laces their fingers together without a second thought. Kyungsoo likes that very much. He feels the gossamer of a secret sliding over his skin, at every point where Jongin is touching him, silken.

It only takes a single word to tear it to pieces.

“Brother.” Jongin squeezes his hand. “We can always walk tomorrow.”

This is why the prince loves Kim Jongin. He has never made him feel like an invalid—and even when he worries, Kyungsoo relishes the attention. More importantly, he knows exactly how much Jongin loves _him_. He feels it like a warm fur on a frosty night, protecting him from the claws of illness.

But Jongin’s love is different from Kyungsoo’s love—as different as night and day—and this is why it brings the prince pain.

Gently, Kyungsoo unlatches his hand. He slides it into his left pocket before it balls into a fist. One of his knuckles grazes the discarded glove—and Kyungsoo feels like a fool, such a fool.

He’d only taken it off to touch Jongin, skin on skin.

“All right.” He swallows as silently as he can. “Tomorrow, then.”

The expression on Jongin’s face is pure exultation. He has no idea what has transpired under the surface. All he knows is that he’s won against a stubborn prince, the same one who skips his tinctures and snaps at fretting nurses.

Jongin grins, pulling Kyungsoo’s cloak tighter around him. He says, “This will help,” breathing into his palms and cupping them over Kyungsoo’s cheeks.

 _That won’t help me_ , the prince thinks to himself, even as he softens in Jongin’s hold. A different kind of cold is rattling through his bones, and he remembers what it felt like, so many years ago, to be alone.

It happens all of a sudden, two summers before.

Jongin has finally been moved into a chamber of his own. The reason has nothing to do with the size of Kyungsoo’s chamber, which is larger than a servant’s home. Airy and spacious, it houses two youths and the trappings of their daily lives with room to spare.

Neither does it have to do with any concept of privacy. Jongin’s presence brings with it an addictive sense of security, and Kyungsoo keeps no secrets from him. Not yet.

Only by the king’s command is Jongin moved out of the prince’s quarters. One day, when he rides home early enough to share a meal with his boys, the king glances across the great table and finds them shockingly grown.

They’ve been sleeping in the same bed since Kyungsoo was five; that summer, the prince turns thirteen. The move across the hall is an adjustment, to say the least.

The young wolf has not yet settled his things when the prince walks in. His thirteenth summer is a strong one, with not as much shortness to his breath. The wheeled seat he uses to move around the palace has been gathering dust. The prince takes pride in each day it remains untouched.

Jongin is arranging a few small carvings on a tray by the window. Little animals, likenesses of the gods, all gifts from the king’s travels. Kyungsoo picks up one: a white wolf carved in marble.

“This is you,” he says thoughtfully.

Jongin seems pleased to find Kyungsoo beside him. He rests a hand on the prince’s back. “That’s what your father says.”

Kyungsoo has missed him in the hours they’ve spent apart today; Jongin puttering around in his new space while Kyungsoo twiddled his thumbs in the old. He is so relieved to be close again that he replies without thinking: “He’s your father, too.”

The words have been said before. Perhaps not by the prince himself, but by servants and tutors in his presence, certainly. _The sons of the king. The young prince and the young wolf._ He already takes them for granted.

But as soon as these words leave his mouth— _your father_ —their effect on him is jarring. They hang strangely in the air, neither truth nor untruth, refusing to evaporate.

Jongin is smiling at him. “Do you really think so?”

Kyungsoo shifts in place. There is a crease between his brows. Jongin would think it odd, or worse, feel wounded, if he took back what he said. And what reason would he have to take it back, anyway, when it is considered fact throughout the court?

“Yes,” Kyungsoo answers after a moment, placing the wolf back on the tray. He finds another carving to occupy his attention. (And his hands. He has to fight the urge to wring them.) Something is awry, like he’s made a promise he can’t keep.

From behind, Jongin’s arms encircle him. “I am glad.”

They embrace like this all the time. Jongin is the more affectionate between the two, often plopping into Kyungsoo’s lap when Kyungsoo is bound to his wheeled seat. The prince reaches for Jongin with the same ease, looping their arms or placing a hand on his hip whenever they are in a crowd. When they were younger, they used to play in the bath, nude, until the warmth of the water lulled them half asleep, arms draped over necks.

But for a reason Kyungsoo cannot put into words, _this_ embrace makes heat drip into his belly. Deep.

He stays perfectly still, concealing shock and dismay. Jongin has not yet stopped speaking.

“If the king is my father,” the young wolf is saying, “does that make you my brother, Kyungsoo?”

Kyungsoo finds himself nodding, rapt, against his better judgment, wanting only to please. They have never spoken to each other this way before.

It happens like a lightning strike—without warning. _NO,_ something inside the prince rails. _No, no, no!_ It claws at him, the reason, until it tears through the sinew of his weak, weak heart. _No, gods, no, he cannot be my brother, he cannot, because that means I cannot love—_

“Brother.” The word is whispered into Kyungsoo’s ear, shy and heavy with affection. “Nothing will change, will it?”

Kyungsoo finds his voice, somehow, in the tangle of his throat. He keeps it soft to hide the desperation. “What will, Jongin?”

“This.” And Jongin squeezes the prince to his chest. “I am afraid, because so much has changed already.”

It dawns on Kyungsoo, through the haze of his emotions, what Jongin is trying to say. “You think the tides have shifted because my father transferred you to this room?”

He feels the nod even if he can’t see it. And he feels the exhale after that. When Jongin’s breath hits the back of Kyungsoo’s neck, it feels almost like a kiss.

“What have I done?” Jongin asks, wavering as he does. “Is he angry with me?”

This is when Kyungsoo turns around. He refuses to meet Jongin’s eyes, afraid they will make him do something reckless. He just pushes his face into the young wolf’s chest and holds him in a vice-like grip.

“You silly lamb.” Kyungsoo shakes his head. “You have your own chamber now because the king desires for you to be _comfortable_.”

“I was very comfortable in our… _your_ chamber.”

Kyungsoo is of the same mind, but he cannot cast doubt on his father’s decisions. “You are all limbs, now, like a growing tree,” he murmurs. “And I am the same, only not as robust. My father would not have the two of us piled together like weeds when the palace has dozens upon dozens of rooms. It wouldn’t be—” Kyungsoo licks his lips. He must choose the right word. “Appropriate.”

“Is that true?” Jongin sniffles.

 _He’s crying._ Kyungsoo loosens his grip. “Have I ever lied to you?” Steeling himself, he breathes in slow and looks straight into Jongin’s face.

The worry is etched into his eyes. They’re still wet around the corners, his lashes all but soaked from the tears he’s blinked away. But a soft curl has returned to his mouth, and he has no trouble holding Kyungsoo’s gaze.

The joy of having comforted him buzzes just beneath Kyungsoo’s skin.

“Never.” The last shreds of hesitation cling to Jongin’s voice. “I know you don’t lie. It’s just…I have never been parted from you since I came to this place.”

“And you will never be parted from me,” Kyungsoo says, meaning every tender word, feeling every overwhelming pulse of first love _._ “I swear it.”

Jongin is mollified by that. Finally. Kyungsoo can see it in the give of his jaw and the glaze over his eyes.

The young wolf clears his throat. “I’ve never told you, have I?”

Kyungsoo attempts to keep busy, wiping away the last of Jongin’s tears with the edge of a knuckle. “Why are you crying?” he mutters. A useless distraction. “You shouldn’t cry around me.”

“I’ve never told you,” Jongin persists, paying him no mind, “how much you mean to me.” Here, a sheepish little laugh. “You mean the world to me, Prince.”

Kyungsoo’s hand freezes, just for a second, before resuming its task. “It’s the same for me.” He licks through the seam of his lips, pressing them shut. “You know better than to call me that, Jongin. You’re not my subject. You’ve never _been_ my subject.” He states this almost angrily. “You’re my—”

“I know.” Jongin drops his forehead to the prince’s shoulder. He hasn’t noticed a thing. “I’m your brother, and you are mine, Kyungsoo.”

A tiny part of the prince withers inside, like a spring flower in the summer sun. He tucks it into a dark space for precious things, the way one would press a petal into a book. It is the first thing he has kept from Jongin since their childhood—a thing so delicate, it would crumble in the wind.

He swears to himself that it will never, ever leave that space again.

It can’t.

It mustn’t

But it does, anyway.

***

The young wolf falls in love in the middle of his eighteenth year.

***

_Written in August 2018._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this after rewatching _The New World_ , one of my favorite movies, which was inspired by the life of Pocahontas. [Here’s a clip from the movie](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=chLhMuCLEPk), with Wagner swelling in the background, to show you the mood I was in.


	3. Place Like Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While living in exile in Tokyo, Jongin falls in complicated love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Kaisoo  
> Genre: bodyguard!au, royal!au  
> Rating: R  
> Length: 5,000 words  
> Warnings: OTP sleeping with other people. Mentions of homophobia.

It’s going to be the tall one tonight. Jongin is sure of it. There is a hand resting high on Kyungsoo’s thigh—too high to be innocent or appropriate—and Kyungsoo lets it stay there. He even spreads his legs a little, smiling when the hand slides down his inner thigh. The tall one’s lips brush against the side of his neck, mirroring the movement of the hand between Kyungsoo’s legs.

The blond one, who’s had Kyungsoo engaged in conversation the whole night and made him laugh twice, sits within a foot of this exchange. His face flattens with disappointment. Jongin can make out a little irritation, too. Not a week ago, the blond one had made it into Kyungsoo’s bed.

_It’s definitely going to be the tall one tonight,_ Jongin thinks, as Kyungsoo tips his head back to meet a broad shoulder. The tall one whispers something into his ear. Kyungsoo closes his eyes. From the corner of the penthouse, where he stands silent and stolid with the rest of the bodyguards, Jongin bristles. The tall one’s hand centers itself over Kyungsoo’s fly, moving up, then down. Kyungsoo hums in approval, and his bottom lip disappears into his mouth.

Jongin feels every fine hair on the back of his neck rise as the tall one dips down and Kyungsoo opens up. They kiss deeply, with obvious pleasure, as though stamping an agreement. And then they twirl tongues, slow and sensual, for the rest of the room to see.

Scattered in pockets around this penthouse, the dozen other hopefuls (as Jongin calls them) concede defeat. The ones who’ve brought bodyguards eye their suits with resignation, and these suits nod at Jongin before filing out behind their clients. The ones who’ve come alone leave together; some conversing quietly, others shooting lusty looks at Kyungsoo and his partner, necking heavily now.

The blond one lingers briefly—that is, until the tall one lets out a telltale groan and pulls Kyungsoo into his lap. Then Blondie’s out the door.

Jongin unclenches his fists. He can feel the indentations his fingernails have left in his palms. They sting from how hard and how long he’s been pressing his nails in. He knows he’s red in the face, too, and is grateful for the cloak of darkness this corner affords him. On a sofa five paces away, Kyungsoo has his legs wrapped around the tall one’s waist. The tall one has his hands on Kyungsoo’s ass, pushing their bodies together.

Keeping his head down, Jongin spins on his heel and makes his exit. The room is silent save for the hum of the air conditioner, which makes the tall one’s soft moans and the slick sounds of his mouth against Kyungsoo’s even louder.

Just as Jongin turns the handle on one of the double doors, Kyungsoo calls out to him.

“Hey,” he says, his voice husky and strained as thick lips work over his Adam’s apple. “Get something to eat. You haven’t had dinner.” The tall one does something Jongin can’t see, and Kyungsoo gasps suddenly, shock and desire flashing across his face. “I’ll—“ Kyungsoo licks his lips, “I’ll call you when we’re done here, Jongin.”

The last thing Jongin sees before he averts his eyes is the tall one unbuttoning his shirt and Kyungsoo pushing him, back first, into that sofa.

“Yes, Your Highness,” Jongin says, and he shuts the door behind him.

It’s been four years since Kim Jongin started working with Do Kyungsoo, the youngest prince in the Korean monarchy. Jongin is only twenty-three, fresh out of the royal academy, when he joins Kyungsoo’s personal security detail. Kyungsoo is a newly-minted twenty-four, his mother’s favorite, and a PR nightmare.

It’s one thing to be a prince with secrets. The heir apparent, Seungsoo, has plenty of those. Old Cartier rings, racy little love letters, fading Polaroids of forgotten kisses. Even Kyungsoo’s father, the king, had kept his own little black book before he met the magnificent queen.

But to be a gay prince—Kyungsoo’s secret—is another thing altogether.

He tries to be discreet about it. No one knows outside of the royal family, save for a few trusted staff members and Kyungsoo’s best friend, Byun Baekhyun. A close cousin and lesser prince, Baekhyun, in fact, was the first person he told.

His first day on the job, Jongin is oriented on the full sordid story. How that very same year, a young man had befriended the prince at a polo match. How, against the advice of his older brother and cousin Baekhyun, the prince had given the man his personal phone number. How Kyungsoo had welcomed the attention after two decades of loneliness, falling swiftly into first love. How over the course of three months, Kyungsoo and the man had entered into an intimate virtual relationship, one marked by daily calls, hundreds of texts, and a bank of private photos. How indescribably happy Kyungsoo had been in those three months, a magical summer. How utterly heartbroken, when the exposé was emailed to the royal family’s media center in the fall. How the young man at the polo match turned out to be a journalist, and how he’d recorded all their calls, saved all their texts, and made copies of all the photos they’d exchanged, including ones where Kyungsoo was undressed. How he’d blackmailed the prince, and how the queen had silenced this man with a small fortune. How the king had been furious with his youngest son. How Prince Seungsoo had stepped between them to protect his little brother. How Baekhyun had spirited Kyungsoo away to Tokyo, just to lay low for a couple days.

“That was a month ago,” the senior bodyguard briefing Jongin says. “The king wants him to stay there for good.”

Jongin reels from the force of all this information. Gay royalty, betrayal and scandal, exile until further notice. “Does this mean I’ll be stationed in Tokyo, too, sunbae?”

The senior bodyguard nods. “Your flight leaves tonight. The overseas team is expecting you.” Then he sighs, and under his breath he mutters, “That poor boy.” It’s impossible to miss the fondness in it, the depth of pity. Jongin makes a mental note of this before bowing and taking his leave.

“And Jongin?”

He turns around. “Yes, sunbae?”

“The queen would like a word with you before you go.”

Kyungsoo is usually in a light mood the morning after. It’s like an invisible load slips off his shoulders every time someone manages to get him off (and good).

“Morning,” he murmurs from the entryway of the apartment. He’s rumpled and louche in a matching set of silk pajamas. His hair is in his eyes.

Jongin is reading the paper in the foyer, practicing his Japanese. As soon as Kyungsoo appears, he gets to his feet, the soles of his leather shoes clacking against the marble. “Good morning, Your Highness.”

Kyungsoo rubs one eye with the heel of his hand. He looks up at Jongin from underneath his eyelashes before letting out a quiet rumble and rubbing the other eye. Up close like this, Jongin can’t decide if the prince is extremely well-rested or a little worse for wear. He just looks soft and sleepy, and he’s missed one of the buttons on his sleep shirt.

Jongin resists asking him the obvious ( _Rough night?_ ) _._ He just grits his back molars and locks the question behind them. It would be completely out of line—and more importantly, he doesn’t want to know.

The tall one left the penthouse just before dawn. Kyungsoo doesn’t let his conquests sleep over. Once he’s gotten exactly what he wants from them, whether that takes one tryst or ten, he sends them away.

Jongin knows it’s a product of his past. Kyungsoo trusts no one now—only Baekhyun, whom he sees twice a month, and the men in his security team, whom he sees every day. He resents his father for making him stay away. He loves his mother, _adores_ her, really, but begrudges her for kowtowing to the king. He has distanced himself from his brother, because Kyungsoo feels like he is a disappointment to him, even though Seungsoo makes it clear in every email and text that he doesn’t feel that way. Kyungsoo tells Jongin all this on his last birthday, after too much wine, lips loose and eyes drooping.

So Jongin does his job, standing guard in the hallway with the rest of his team as Kyungsoo tends to his bedfellow of the week. And when these bedfellows leave, Jongin makes sure they take with them the non-disclosure agreement every person signs before stepping foot in the prince’s penthouse.

That’s a product of Kyungsoo’s past, too.

“Can I get you anything, Your Highness?” Jongin asks now, as the prince stretches his arms over his head.

“How many times do I have to tell you,” Kyungsoo yawns, cricking his neck, “it’s just Kyungsoo.”

Jongin smiles at him. “Yes, Your Highness.”

“And yet he refuses to call me that,” Kyungsoo mutters in a mocking way, so Jongin knows he’s meant to hear. “Insists on sticking to protocol, even when I tell him not to.”

The bodyguard lets his smile deepen. “I’m sorry, Your Highness.”

Kyungsoo waves him off, padding back into the penthouse on bare feet. “Come inside for coffee, Jonginnie.”

The nickname makes his chest squeeze. “Yes…” he manages to get out. He folds the newspaper lengthwise, across, then lengthwise again, rolling it up so it fits neatly under his arm. This gives him enough time to let out a long exhale. Clear his lungs of any charged air.

Even after four years, his inexperience a distant memory and his youth drifting away, Jongin feels exactly the way he did when he first laid eyes on the prince.

Smitten.

Every time Kyungsoo takes a man into his room and sends Jongin out for a meal, Jongin takes a knife in the chest.

“Jonginnie,” Kyungsoo calls from somewhere inside the apartment.

Jongin inhales. “Yes, Your Highness.”

“Let’s go get pancakes in Omotesando.”

The thought of fluffy, cream-covered Japanese pancakes cuts right through Jongin’s longing. He actually huffs out a laugh.

“Yes, Your Highness. I’ll tell the rest of the team.” Joonmyun and Chanyeol are having a smoke on the south veranda, and Sehun’s on the toilet.

“No need.” Kyungsoo’s voice sounds much nearer this time. Jongin is only half-surprised when his head pops out the door. “Let them have the morning off,” the prince says. His hair is still in his eyes. “You can take care of me, can’t you?”

Jongin lets his eyes rest briefly on Kyungsoo’s face before shifting to his feet. “Of course.” He’ll need to exhale again, as soon as he’s alone. “I can do that, Your Highness.”

The young prince Jongin meets for the first time in Tokyo is wildly different from the Kyungsoo of today. _That_ version of Kyungsoo—wary and withdrawn, like an abandoned animal—is long gone. Jongin misses him sometimes (those shifty looks, that endearing stutter) when he watches the suave, twenty-eight-year-old version of Kyungsoo at his soirées. He isn’t a talkative man, by any means, nor a particularly charming one. But Kyungsoo does have a certain confidence about him; a silent, artless seduction that pulls in lovers like moths to a flame.

Jongin gets it. There is an air of mystique that surrounds a banished royal, particularly when that banishment is based on whom he beds. The upper-crust sons of Tokyo (the ones who bed other sons in secret) just want a taste. Who wouldn’t? Kyungsoo has the lineage of his father and the beauty of his mother; shiny, golden things that adorn him like a crown.

On that first day, when Jongin arrives at the penthouse in Tokyo Midtown, the prince is sitting alone in his study. It’s midnight, and Jongin’s damp and disheveled from an unexpected rainstorm. He’s still holding his passport.

“You’re the new guy,” Kyungsoo says before Jongin can say it himself. Kyungsoo’s voice is low and even. He keeps his back turned, so Jongin can’t see his face.

The young bodyguard straightens up, nonetheless. “Yes, Your Highness.”

“What’s your name?”

“Kim Jongin, Your Highness.”

“And when did you graduate?”

“Just this year, Your Highness.”

“That’s right. Joonmyun-hyung said you were at the top of your class.” Kyungsoo lowers his voice by a few degrees. “Strong, smart…loyal as they come, hyung said.”

Jongin shifts his body weight from one foot to the other. It seems he’s been a topic of discussion. Makes sense, given the circumstances of the client he’s been assigned to. “Yes, Your Highness.”

The prince turns around then. Jongin is startled by how pretty he is—smooth skin, fine eyes, full lips parted ever-so-slightly. Kyungsoo’s hair is dark and soft, flopping into his eyes like someone’s ruffled it. Jongin’s fingers twitch, longing suddenly to smooth it away.

_No,_ he admonishes himself, clenching his fingers into a fist, a million and one thoughts running through his head. _He’s a PRINCE OF KOREA_ is one of them. _He’s beautiful_ is another.

The prince eyes him carefully. “Can I trust you, Kim Jongin?”

Jongin nods once, with vigor. “Absolutely, Your Highness.”

“I…” Kyungsoo hesitates, but he doesn’t break eye contact. “I like men. That’s why they won’t let me come home.” His gaze is sharp around the edges, vulnerable at the core. “You should know that from the beginning, in case it’s a problem.”

Jongin already knew, of course, but it had to be said. He chooses his next words, plucking them from the memory of a conversation he’d had years and years before. “A lot of people like men, Your Highness. And a lot of people like women.” He tries not to break eye contact, either. “It’s not a problem. Just a preference. That’s all.”

It’s exactly what his parents had told him when he came out to them at sixteen.

“That’s all, huh?” The prince’s smile is tiny, little more than an upturned line. But Jongin can tell he is satisfied.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“You can call me Kyungsoo.” The prince pushes his hair off his forehead, exposing more of that blemishless baby face. “We can’t be more than a year apart.”

Jongin knows how old Kyungsoo is. But he seems so much younger, the way he folds in on himself, making his narrow shoulders look narrower; the way his eyes flit from Jongin’s face to the floor and back again, so he looks more pup than prince. Even the way he speaks, slow and halting, reminds Jongin of how he used to be as a teenager.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Jongin replies. “But I’ll stick with formalities, if you don’t mind.”

“All right, Kim Jongin.” Kyungsoo’s voice is amused, but also shy and somewhat relieved. “I hope you’ll stick with me, too.”

And just like that, without warning or permission, Jongin’s heart throbs.

Kyungsoo has turned his back again. “That’s all for tonight. You may go.”

Jongin lets out a stream of breath, willing his attraction under control. He has a mission to complete. “Forgive me, Your Highness.”

A slice of cheek, a sliver of jaw, when Kyungsoo answers over his shoulder. “Was there something else?”

“I have a message for you. From your…” Jongin bites the inside of his cheek. “From the queen.”

The movement is delicate, almost imperceptible, but Jongin notices. Kyungsoo has stiffened from head to foot.

“What is it?”

“She says she’s sorry.”

Even now, Jongin has no idea why this information was entrusted to him. It makes him uncomfortable, being so new and already a go-between. But queen’s orders are queen’s orders.

Kyungsoo remains perfectly taciturn, body taut as a violin string. With only the prince’s profile to observe, Jongin can’t make out any other reaction.

“She says you won’t pick up her calls or answer her messages,” he continues nervously. “She says she misses you, but you won’t let her through. So she’ll just have to tell you by proxy from now on.” He swallows hard. There. He did it. It was difficult, but now it’s done. “That was the message, Your Highness.”

Kyungsoo doesn’t make a sound. Not even the whisper of a sigh. He just lets his shoulders sag, like the marionette strings supporting that part of his body have gone loose.

“Thank you, Jongin.” His voice is deep, too deep for someone with that young a face, and so, so tired. “Joonmyun will show you to your room.”

Once, Jongin dreams about them in bed together. It’s Jongin’s bed back home, in his cozy one-bedroom, not the ritzy Tokyo bed Kyungsoo sleeps in. In the dream, Kyungsoo is soft and warm, so much smaller than him, just the way Jongin imagined he would be under all those expensive clothes. The prince is completely nude, straddling Jongin’s firm stomach. His hands rest on Jongin’s shoulders. Jongin’s hands cup his waist. The skin under Jongin’s palms feels plush, like velvet almost. And when Kyungsoo bends down, presumably for a kiss, the air between their mouths smells of milk. _Baby breath,_ Jongin thinks with odd clarity. It’s a throwaway detail, but he remembers it long after the dream has faded.

Just before their lips latch, the prince’s eyes half-lidded and Jongin’s heart rate at double the speed, everything goes dark.

Then Jongin wakes up.

A week after the Japanese pancakes, he goes for an early morning run with Sehun. They’ve left Joonmyun and Chanyeol behind with the prince, who is fast asleep (and alone) in his bed. It’s five AM, still dark out. Even so, Tokyo vibrates with fast-moving traffic and traces of fluorescence from the fleeing night.

Sehun isn’t wearing his earphones today. That means he wants to talk. Jongin knows what this is about. The day before, the blonde one had stopped by the penthouse for a prescheduled lunch. The spread was light but fancy: caviar, blinis, crème fraîche, chardonnay. Jongin had stepped out into the hall with the rest of the guys to wait it out. When the meal was over, Kyungsoo personally ushered the blonde one into his private elevator and left him with a peck on the lips. Jongin had seen and looked away. Sehun had seen _that_ and stared Jongin down.

It was only a matter of time before he called Jongin out on it.

“Look,” Sehun starts, keeping pace with him on an empty sidewalk. “I already know this is none of my business.”

Jongin smirks in spite of himself. “It’s fine.”

“And I also know that the last time I brought this up, you didn’t like it.”

“It’s fine, Hun.”

Sehun worries his lower lip, then his upper. “Okay then.” His voice is laced with concern. “Don’t do this to yourself, Jongin.”

“I’m not _doing_ anything.” Jongin keeps his eyes straight ahead, his feet pounding pavement. “I can’t help it.”

The wind this morning is brutal, a cold October gust. Still, Jongin can hear Sehun’s sigh skating over the whoosh. “What is it exactly?” the younger bodyguard—his best friend—asks. “What is it about him you’re so obsessed with?”

This the part Jongin hadn’t liked from the last time. “I’m not obsessed with him,” he says quietly. “I’m…really…fond of him.”

Sehun turns in his direction. “Try a little bit in love with him.”

“In love?” Jongin can barely get the words out. “I don’t know.” Sehun turns away. Two pairs of trainers scrape against cement. “But it’s not an obsession, Hun.”

Sehun bumps shoulders with him. “Don’t be angry. I wasn’t judging you or anything like that. It’s just—”

Jongin ducks his head. “It’s just that it’s hopeless,” he finishes for his friend. The cowl of his hoodie drops further over his brow. “He’s a client—a _prince_ —and I’m a suit. I know.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Sehun snaps before he can catch himself. Remorse shrouds his face immediately, and he takes a second to inhale. “Don’t say ‘suit’ like you’re some sort of bottom-feeder. You’re a fucking catch. If I was gay, _I’d_ be into you, and I’m a goddamn national treasure.”

The delivery is crude, but this is Sehun at his sweetest. Jongin laughs weakly under his hood. “Shut up, Sehun.”

“You shut up.”

This time, it’s a horselaugh that exits Jongin’s hoodie.

Sehun shoves him, hard. His face is so red. “You’re misunderstanding me. I didn’t mean he was out of your league. Those rich guys that come over to the apartment? I’ve seen at least _three_ of them ogling you when the prince isn’t looking.” Sehun counts them on his fingers. “The Spanish one, the one with the perm, the really pale one…”

Jongin doesn’t like where this is going. “Even so, that doesn’t put me on the same level as a royal.”

“Not even when the men he puts on _his_ level want you?” Sehun cocks a dark brow. “The suit assigned to the Swedish ambassador’s son came up to me yesterday. You know Yuta?”

Jongin frowns. His feet are on autopilot: thud, scrape, thud. “Yeah, I know Yuta. What did he want?”

“He wanted to know if you were married or single,” is Sehun’s blithe reply. “And if the answer was single, what _kind_ of single. Said his client wanted to polska his way into your pants.”

“What did he really say, Hun.”

Sehun trills. He’s such a child sometimes. “He said the Swedish ambassador’s son was working up the nerve to ask you to dinner—which is the same thing _._ So _there._ ” The crimp in his mouth speaks of petty triumph.

“That’s so inappropriate.” Jongin rounds a corner just then, and Sehun struggles not to break file. Jongin feels a slight flare in his nostrils. “That Swedish guy was there on the prince’s invitation. He spent half an hour flirti—talking about some spicy wine from South Africa that he’d brought. He even…” _Put his thumb against the corner of Kyungsoo’s mouth,_ Jongin rants silently. _Caught a stray drop of spicy bullshit wine and sucked it off his thumb, with Kyungsoo watching the whole time._ He remembers how affected he’d been by that, especially after seeing the curl of Kyungsoo’s smile. He has to shake his head to clear it of the image. “Never mind.”

“See?” Sehun slings a long, strong arm around his shoulders. “This is what I’m talking about. Don’t _do_ _that_ to yourself, Jongin.” A beat slides past. Two degrees softer, Sehun insists, “He’s not worth it.”

_How do you know that?_ Jongin thinks, shrugging him off as gently as he can. The answer he verbalizes is, “Don’t worry about me.” He zips his hoodie all the way up so it covers his mouth. “I can handle myself.”

He picks up the pace now, wanting to be left alone, because he’s tired of talking about it. Sehun won’t let him get ahead, though.

“I know that, okay?” Sehun says, jogging backwards so they can talk face to face. Jongin shuts his eyes, rolls them underneath his lids. Sehun flicks him on the forehead. “I just care about you, you idiot. And I care about the prince, too. Lord knows we’ve been watching him for four years.” Thud, scrape, thud. “But he does a lot of things that aren’t necessarily…healthy? And what’s worse is I think he does them out of spite more than real enjoyment? That’s how it looks to me at least.”

Jongin rubs a hand across his forehead. That’s how it’s looked to him for years, but he’ll let Sehun say it for the both of them.

“Point is, you’re my best friend,” Sehun mutters. “Not him. If I think you’re going to end up hurting yourself, I’m not about to stand by and say nothing.”

“All right, all right, all right.” Jongin reaches out and knuckles his scalp. “I got it already.”

“Ow!” Sehun yelps, batting him away. Jongin’s affection can be a little violent when he feels vulnerable. Especially when he feels touched.

“For the record,” Jongin says, “you’re my best friend, too.” Then he shoves Sehun’s shoulder hard enough to spin him round, so they’re jogging side by side again. “Now will you stop with the sap so we can break a sweat here?”

Sehun half-grins, half-grimaces at him. They move on to the next subject. That Netflix show about serial killers Joonmyun said they’d love. Sehun’s last text message from Bae Joohyun, the royal secretary he’s been crazy over all year. They run past sleepy, unlit office buildings and minimalist playgrounds, chatting about everything and nothing at all. Neutral territory.

Still, during brief lulls in the conversation, when all he hears is thud, scrape, thud and the whir of Tokyo traffic, Jongin spies the caution behind Sehun’s eyes and knows this isn’t quite over yet.

The prince’s first lover is the lawyer who drafts the NDA. By this time, Jongin’s been in Tokyo for two years. He is twenty-five, the prince twenty-six, and the lawyer thirty-four.

The lawyer’s name is Insung. He’s been sent by the queen. Kyungsoo is perfectly civil.

“I’m told you’re the best,” he says, as the lawyer slides over a slim portfolio with all the paperwork. “So I’m guessing this contract is bulletproof.”

Insung is elegant and tall, even while seated, with a softness in his mouth and a sharpness in his face that belies intelligence. “Thank you, Your Highness.” His voice is a silk stocking, slipping over skin. “Please let me know if you need any changes made when you read the document through.” When he bows his head, his neck has a pretty, feminine bend to it.

Harvard-educated man with a pretty neck, even prettier face. Jongin can’t stand the sight of him. He shuffles in place between Sehun and Chanyeol. Joonmyun squints at him a question mark in his eyes. Jongin shakes his head, _nothing._

Kyungsoo taps his finger against the portfolio. He doesn’t open it. “Joonmyun-hyung will go through it with me later. He went to Harvard, too, you know.”

He glances over his shoulder at his attaché, and Joonymun dips his head in deference. This lets Kyungsoo catches eyes with Jongin, who stands a head taller behind Joonmyun. The prince smiles at him—because Jongin, as everyone knows, is his favorite. He winks. Jongin dips his head, too, biting his tongue to keep his face impassive.

Kyungsoo turns back to the lawyer. “Will you give me a summary for now?”

“Of course, Your Highness.” Insung bows again. “In so many words, it states that whoever signs this document must keep any and all interactions with you strictly confidential. A breach in contract would lead to severe legal action, covering massive restitution damages, possibly extradition for both Koreans and non-Koreans.” Insung folds his hands over the table. “But since you are currently living outside of South Korea—”

“Permanently,” Kyungsoo puts in, “unless my father changes his mind.”

Jongin notes the flicker of unrest in the lawyer’s face. “Forgive me, Your Highness,” Insung says, bowing for the third time in four minutes. “Given that, I’ve also included a clause that aligns the breach to the anti-blackmail laws of whatever country you are residing in at the time of signing.” He recovers smoothly with a jaunty nod. “It is, as you say, bulletproof.”

“That’s good to know.”

Kyungsoo runs his fingers through his hair, and the movement obscures his face for a moment. When he drops his hand and stares the lawyer down, it’s impossible to miss the change in his expression. A keenness brewing in the eyes, a quirk knotting in the mouth. Jongin sees it, clear as day.

Trouble.

“And what exactly constitutes an interaction, Insung-sshi?” He’s speaking casually enough, but still, the name leaves Kyungsoo’s lips like a delicious secret.

Insung must hear something in it, too, because he regards the prince with fresh curiosity. “Anything verbal, Your Highness. Like a conversation, or even a greeting.” He lowers his voice, like they _are_ trading secrets, and his is the best yet. “The contract covers anything non-verbal, too.”

Kyungsoo’s smile is slow and sticky, indulgent as molasses. It makes Jongin’s stomach drop to his feet. This is really happening, right in front of him, and he can’t do anything about it.

“Non-verbal,” Kyungsoo muses. “Like a handshake?” 

“Like a handshake, yes, Your Highness.”

Kyungsoo looks fairly amused. Placid, even. But Jongin can see his knee bouncing under the table, and he knows the prince is getting at something.

“A tap on the shoulder? A hug?”

“Those, too, Your Highness.”

Kyungsoo fingers the edge of the portfolio, tracing it back and forth, back and forth. “And a kiss?”

The lawyer’s smile is sleek as marble. The tips of his ears are flaming red, belying his cool exterior. “Yes…Your Highness.” He isn’t as calm as he would like to be. Jongin sees that clear as day. “A kiss would count. Much more than a kiss.”

Jongin isn’t as calm as he would like to be, either, if the elbow that jabs him in the side is any indication. He flinches, slides his eyes in the direction of the jab. It’s Chanyeol.

_What’s wrong?_ the second-in-command mouths. _Stop squirming._

Sehun’s looking now, too, beetle brows sloping, eyes searching Jongin’s, trying to decipher his mood. Jongin wants to hide his face in one of Sehun’s endless shoulders and scream.

“Would you like to kiss me, Insung-sshi?”

These are the seven words that catch everyone’s attention.

***

_Written in March 2018._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening for this fic: [ Honne’s “No Place Like Home.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0S3aRJcrx10)


	4. Sound in a Dark Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kyungsoo hasn’t felt— _really_ felt—since he was a young boy, listening to dead love songs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Kaisoo  
> Genre: dystopia!au  
> Rating: R  
> Length: 7,400 words  
> Warnings: Kaistal, injured character, mentions of suicide

They call it a vitamin.

Two tablets daily after meals for adults. Chewables in the morning for twelve-year-olds and below. A teaspoon of syrup mixed into juice or milk, so it goes undetected in a toddler’s sippy cup.

Vitamin S. That’s its nickname.

Parents tell their kids that S stands for all good things (sensible, sober, safe) _._ Medical professors give their students an acronym: SSRI, or Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitor. At any pharmacy, one simply asks for sertraline—the quick-absorbing, universally compatible, emotion-cancelling wonder drug.

When Vitamin S was first released, the World Union hailed it a global triumph. “An unprecedented development in anti-conflict medical measures,” according to the papers. The WU’s memorandum on the drug stressed the individual’s responsibility to maintain order and progress simply by taking the recommended dose.

Kyungsoo was eleven when the teachers at school began to distribute the pills in homeroom. Back then, his pre-teen Vitamin S came in colorful baby animal shapes. _To make things more fun for the children_ , the teachers would tell all the parents.

But quadrillennials don’t need fun anymore. Only functionality.

Today, Kyungsoo’s six-year-old niece consumes white circular tablets embossed with the letters “SSRI.” They’re almost as potent as Kyungoo’s own pills, and pretty indistinguishable—just chalkier between the fingers.

If, somehow, his thirty-year-old self managed to misplace his sertraline supply, he could easily share hers.

But Kyungsoo is Kyungsoo, and that would never happen.

Joonmyun is the director at BiblioTech, the virtual library where Kyungsoo has worked for the past seven years. That’s why it is Joonmyun who approaches him, on a rainy August morning, to introduce their newest team member.

“This is Soojung,” Joonmyun says, in that unobtrusive voice of his. “Soojung, this is Kyungsoo, the senior archivist I was telling you about.”

Kyungsoo surfaces from behind his thirty-inch desktop, where fifteen e-pages of Shakespeare’s First Folio are laid out for scrutiny. He’s met with a quiet, oval face and dark hair. Loose.

“Hello, Soojung.” He extends a hand, palm up. “Welcome to the company.”

The woman has a feline mouth that turns up at the corners even though she isn’t smiling. “Pleased to meet you, Kyungsoo.” She hovers her palm over his, so their identification chips can scan. No touching in 2100. “I’ve heard great things about your work in Manuscripts.”

The scan concludes with a ping. Kyungsoo’s hand falls to his side. “Thank you for your information. Which database will you be working on?”

Soojung folds her hands in front of her. “Maps.” Her hair smells like strawberries. “I’ve always had a passion for geography.”

“Soojung has lived all over the world. Military family.” Joonmyun’s tone is matter-of-fact. “She’ll be taking over Heeja’s post, effective immediately.”

Heeja is the Maps archivist who is retiring today. Kyungsoo wouldn’t go as far as to say they’re close, but he does enjoy Heeja’s tales of her past as a flight attendant. Hearing her stories is like reading Kerouac or Salinger or Palahniuk—winding and straightforward at once.

“I’m glad the position was filled so quickly,” Kyungsoo replies. “I was afraid our productivity would suffer with one senior archivist down.”

“Not to worry.” Soojung’s hands are still folded neatly in place. “I’m a quick study.”

Later, when turnover has been completed and Heeja has vacated her station, Joonmyun calls Soojung into his office. Kyungsoo is momentarily distracted by this, because Joonmyun rarely speaks to the faculty in private. Not that there’s any privacy in a glass-walled space.

Then Sehun from Graphic Novels materializes at his station, requesting a spare stylus, and Kyungsoo forgets all about it.

It doesn’t escape him the next day, though, when Soojung comes to work with her hair tied up.

As an adolescent, Kyungsoo is fascinated by music. He has two reasons: one, it’s unlike anything they study at school, and two, it’s rare. The direct correlation between music and emotion has put it out of vogue in the 22nd century—and while it isn’t prohibited, regular production has ceased completely.

Kyungsoo’s grandfather was a frustrated composer back when music was considered a worthwhile pursuit. His record collection is vast, and it is where Kyungsoo gets his first taste of harmony and rhythm. Harabeoji listens to everything—Beethoven, The Beatles, Gui Boratto. His favorite composer is Cliff Martinez, who was a drummer in a band, and who went on to score underrated films in Harabeoji’s youth.

“Vitamin S hadn’t even been invented yet,” he tells Kyungsoo many times, crinkling his eyes.

Harabeoji passes away shortly after Kyungsoo’s grandmother. The death certificate indicates psychosomatic heart failure. The old are more susceptible to it because of low sertraline levels in their blood history.

“A broken heart,” the medic explains, “is a powerful thing.”

Kyungsoo inherits the record collection in its entirety. He is sixteen. He’s been taking Vitamin S religiously for five years. He hasn’t felt the urge to cry in almost as long. At Harabeoji’s funeral, when he delivers the eulogy, he feels nothing; only a tranquil emptiness, like still water.

But every year, on the anniversary of his grandfather’s death, he follows a tradition. He removes each vinyl disc from its sleeve. There are hundreds of them in the collection. He takes these records, one by one, and he wipes them down with a piece of felt to keep them in pristine condition. This is something Harabeoji taught him during their time together.

Whenever he plays Cliff Martinez, Kyungsoo remembers an old man’s eyes and the crinkle of affection in them, warm on his face.

“Kyungsoo?”

The voice is crisp and refined, like the sound of the piano keys under Kyungsoo’s fingers. He looks up—and there’s Soojung, standing next to the Yamaha, surprised.

“Soojung.” His fingers lift away from their octave. A-minor. “What are you doing here?”

This is the only music store left in Seoul, a place Harabeoji used to take him when Kyungsoo was just getting into classical. _Lyrics are the serenade,_ Harabeoji would whisper, _but real music is the romance of an instrument._ He was always saying sentimental things like that, especially if he’d forgotten to take his sertraline.

Soojung is holding a black case against her chest. Her fingers splay out over the thermoplastic. “I collect violins,” she explains.

“Ah.” Kyungsoo’s nod is perfunctory. “Do you play?”

Soojung’s lips twitch. “No. I don’t.” Her eyes flit from his face to the upright piano he’d been testing and back again. “You play, though.”

Kyungsoo shuts the lid. “Old habit.”

Soojung’s fingers seem to tighten over the contours of the violin case. Her gaze drifts to the ground, lips closing into a line.

And then they are silent.

A strange and delicate awareness hangs in the air. Kyungsoo would almost use the word _discomfort_ to describe it. But on an adult dose of sertraline, discomfort would be illogical.

Soojung dips her head. “I’ll be heading home now.” Her expression is placid and civil. It is the same one she has worn at BiblioTech every day for three months, since she took over Maps.

Kyungsoo isn’t finished, though. “How did you find this place?” The music store is more of a museum now than it is an actual store. He reckons it’s been subsidized by the government—for educational purposes, obviously. There is no other function music could serve in this society beyond education. “I’ve been coming here for years, and I’ve never—”

“A friend.” Soojung’s feline mouth twitches, yet again. “I learned about it through a friend.”

Now Kyungsoo is the surprised one. “I didn’t realize people still kept friends at this age,” he says bluntly. His head tilts to one side, completely on instinct.

“We were raised together,” is Soojung’s impassive reply. She retreats half a step. “Goodnight, Kyungsoo.”

The shift in his posture is instant. “Goodnight, Soojung,” Kyungsoo returns, head untilting, spinal chord stacking. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

He watches her back as she walks away. In the dimming light of dusk, the music store seems otherworldly (warm wood, yellow light, antique instruments). It is a filmy, fragile bubble in the sea of steel and concrete his city has sharpened into. But Soojung, in her standard-issue gray suit, looks right at home.

The health warning comes three months after that.

_Worldwide ASD outbreak,_ reads every e-headline and holographic broadcast. _Active Serotonin Disorder detected in Seoul. Report to nearest health center if symptoms persist._

These symptoms, Joonmyun informs the faculty, differ from stage to stage.

“There’s no cause for immediate concern,” he shares at BiblioTech’s weekly plenary. Joonmyun’s voice rarely ventures above a polite undertone. “The medics assigned to our building have briefed me on the four stages of the disease, which I will be sharing with you shortly. A digital pamphlet has been sent to your MailDrops should you wish to review the information after the meeting.”

The archivists and their associates, the developers and _their_ associates, the entire human resources team, and even the hygiene operators have been invited to this plenary. The plexiglass conference hall is packed to the brim. All ninety-three employees await the briefing with bated breath—Kyungsoo included.

“Before anything else,” Joonmyun says calmly, and with utmost conviction, “I’d like you to know that Active Serotonin Disorder is not contagious.”

He projects a three-dimensional slide that states exactly that into the air in front of him.

Vague sounds of relief and understanding fill the hall _._ Kyungsoo nods to himself. Seated next to him with her portable tablet in her lap, Soojung exhibits no reaction at all.

According to Joonmyun’s presentation, Stage One ASD is marked by sleeplessness, an inability to focus, and “uncharacteristic curiosity.”

“I apologize for the ambiguity of the latter,” Joonmyun says, gesturing to that section of his slide. “But the medics tell me you will recognize the symptom once you experience it.”

Stage Two involves all of the same symptoms as Stage One, only intensified by depression.

“A surge in the neurotransmitter serotonin decreases the efficacy of sertraline,” Joonmyun explains, skipping ahead to a slide that compares the chemical structures of both. “As you know, a serotonin imbalance is what causes disorders in mood, social behavior, even memory. ‘Violence in emotion,’ the medics call it. So there must be a corresponding increase in sertraline to control it.”

Stage Three brings with it anger, shaking anxiety, irrational distrust, and every facet of distress, all in high concentrations. The infected will also experience a spike in libido. Joonmyun’s slide shows a figure of human anatomy with the brain, heart, and genitalia glowing fluorescent.

“Excuse the graphic nature of this presentation,” is his response to the surprised hum. “I’m just relaying what I was told.”

Stage Four is the final form of ASD, and the most grim.

“It is during this stage that one exhibits suicidal behavior.” Joonmyun doesn’t flinch. “Stage Four is beyond medical treatment. No amount of sertraline can reverse its symptoms. There is only palliative care, and in the worst case scenario, euthanasia.”

Kyungsoo hears it right then: the pin-thin gasp that escapes Soojung’s throat.

“But Stage Four cases are very rare these days. It’s the 22nd century,” Joonymun drones in the background. “With the proper precautions, majority of patients see a turnaround as early as Stage Two.” His presentation concludes with a _Thank You_ and BiblioTech’s holo logo. “Should it come to Stage Four, the Bureau of Health provides a passing with dignity and free of pain.”

Kyungsoo shoots a glance Soojung’s way, right out of the corner of his eye. Her knuckles have turned white where they clutch her tablet, and the skin on her face has a gray tinge to it.

“Soojung.” That strange and delicate awareness is back, nudging against his chest. “Are you all right?”

Soojung’s hair is tightly pinned. She flattens an invisible strand of it behind her ear. “Yes.” She does it again, then abruptly drops her hand. “Yes, thank you.”

“You seem unwell,” Kyungsoo presses on. “Have you taken Vitamin S today?”

“Yes,” Soojung replies, “I had my morning dose.” She turns to look at him. Her face is blank as paper, and just as pale. “It’s because I…haven’t had sufficient sleep. Some aspects of my work are more time-consuming than others.”

The plenary is over. The crowd disperses around them, more animated than usual. Some people discuss the toll of ASD on productivity, while others recount their own brushes with the disease through relatives and neighbors.

“You should take the rest of the day off.” Kyungsoo stands up, a touch apprehensive. He feels the same way he had when, as an associate, he’d mistakenly accessed a section of the library that was above his pay grade.

Soojung stands, too. “I...” She grips the back of her chair. “I’m not sick.” But her eyes have gone all glassy, like she’s not entirely there. Kyungsoo can tell in a single look.

He takes the tablet from her other hand—gently, so as not to startle her. He’s not sure why he cares. “It’s just a precaution, Soojung.”

Her feline mouth curves over soundless words. Her fingers are shaking, and there is a flutter underneath her lashes.

“You must take better care of yourself,” Kyungsoo admonishes her in sotto voce. “You’ll get ASD this way.”

It all happens in a split second.

Soojung’s knees buckle. The pupils of her eyes roll to the back of her head, showing only the whites, until her lids slide over them. The rest of her body, pulled as tight as a violin string, swoons.

With the first jolt of shock he’s had in years, Kyungsoo watches her cheek hit the edge of the chair.

He is instructed by Joonmyun to take her home, despite Soojung’s protests to the contrary.

The director hands her a silicone ice to hold against her bruised face. “Ensuring the faculty’s well-being is part of my scope,” he says, passing Kyungsoo her belongings. “You fainted. I’ve assigned you an escort as a contingency measure. This is protocol, Soojung.”

A hush hangs over the seven-minute walk from BiblioTech to the metro station, the twenty-two-minute ride from the metro station to Soojung’s stop, and the two-minute ascent from the base of the stair exit to the front of her apartment complex.

Kyungsoo takes the exact same route every day.

He looks up at the twin buildings before them: twenty storeys of polished steel and granite glass. “You live here?”

Soojung nods, gripping the strap of her leather workbag. “Thank you for your assistance. I’ll see you at Biblio—”

“But I live here, too,” Kyungsoo puts in, turning slowly to look at her. Stranger and stranger still. “Why haven’t I seen you around?” It dawns on him that this might be an inappropriate question. He shakes his head, regrouping. “How long have you been a resident?”

“Since I started at the company,” Soojung replies, the weakness in her body clinging to every word. Her eyes are on the ground. “I’ve seen you.”

“Was I…in a rush?”

“No.” Soojung raises her eyes. “I just…” She drops them again. Some of her hair has come unpinned in the back. “I just didn’t say hello.”

Kyungsoo cannot wrap his mind around a co-worker avoiding another co-worker for any reason. Because that’s exactly what Soojung’s been doing for six months, in this very apartment complex. Avoiding him.

He wants to know why.

Her complexion has grown increasingly peaked in the minutes they’ve spent on the pavement. Kyungsoo files his question away for another time.

“Joonmyun insisted I take you to the door,” he says quietly, walking ahead. “In case you collapse again, someone has to call a medic.”

Kyungsoo lives on the fifteenth floor of this building. Soojung lives on the twentieth, right at the very top.

“Penthouse,” Kyungsoo remarks when she presses the button. “You must have an excellent view.”

“I’m afraid of heights,” Soojung lets slip. She flinches immediately, having said more than she wanted to. Kyungsoo is struck by how far-removed this person is from the brisk, polished Soojung at work.

The elevator stops at the twentieth floor. When it opens, it’s to soft light and a set of double doors. This, Kyungsoo knows, is the entrance to the penthouse, gleaming gray like the rest of their building.

Soojung steps out. “Thank you for your assistance.” It’s the second time she’s said that. She reaches for her bag, dropping the silicone ice into its front pocket. “I can take it from here.”

“I don’t mean to question you,” Kyungsoo says, contemplating the portfolio of inconsistencies he’s observed this afternoon. “But Soojung, have you been tested for ASD?”

She blanches like a leaf in a snowstorm, just as the double doors slide apart.

“Soojung-ah?” A young man shuffles out. “I heard talking...”

His face is unshaven. His hair is rumpled, as though he’s just woken up. He wears the standard-issue beige house clothes everyone in the country owns. There is an ergonomic crutch under his left arm that belies his height. He leans on it heavily as he meets Kyungsoo’s stunned gaze.

Soojung doesn’t even look over her shoulder. “Jongin.” His name drops in a low, urgent tone. “Go back inside.”

This Jongin has an incredibly communicative face. Eyes widen, brows furrow, and lips part, all at once, when he spies the bruise on Soojung’s cheekbone.

“What happened?” He shuffles forward a few more steps. “Were you struck?”

When he runs his fingers over the purpling skin, _actually touching her,_ Kyungsoo reels.

Soojung seems perfectly attuned to his thoughts. She peels away from Jongin’s fingertips, the shake of her head a minute one. Then she forces her composure, pushing into it with her arms and shoulders and head like it’s a slicker in a deluge.

“I fell.” She turns her face so she can peer up at Jongin. He bows his neck so she doesn’t have to strain. “I wasn’t struck.” Her voice is even. “I’m fine now, Nini.”

Kyungsoo clocks every movement, every word, half-fascinated, half-disturbed.

“Go back inside.” Soojung drops a light touch to the bone of Jongin’s wrist. “I’ll be right behind you.”

But this tall, lame man refuses to retreat. He does just the opposite, in fact—limping in front of Soojung so he stands between her and the elevator and Kyungsoo, frozen in place.

“I’m grateful to you for bringing Soojung home.” Jongin stretches up to his full height, crutch and all. “I would appreciate it if you kept our living arrangements private.”

“You two live in this apartment together,” Kyungsoo whispers. “You’re…a couple. An _actual_ _couple_ , in 2100.” His voice snags from disuse (and disbelief). “Do you…have ASD?”

Jongin pushes his hair out of his face. His eyes are deep, intelligent, and sharpened to a point. Kyungsoo will admit that he feels intimidated, even though this man’s injury puts him at a clear disadvantage. Even though years of sertraline should have weaned Kyungsoo off the concept of intimidation, of fear. Even though he is supposed to be immune to all emotion.

“Yes, we live together.” Jongin doesn’t break eye contact. “No, we’re not a couple—but Soojung is the most important person to me.”

She is still standing behind him, workbag limp in her arms. Kyungsoo can tell she is holding her breath from the hollow at the base of her throat.

“As for ASD,” Jongin concludes, tranquil as a child, “we both have it.” His crutch creaks under the burden of his weight. “But it’s not contagious. So you don’t have to be so disgusted with us.”

In the spectrum of things Kyungsoo never expected to happen, this is Completely And Utterly Unexpected.

The irony of it all is what finally makes him laugh—if one can call the wry, breathy sound he makes for 0.2 seconds a laugh. Kyungsoo hasn’t laughed in almost two decades.

“I know it isn’t contagious.” The notes of a vibraphone are playing in his head. Ascending and descending, spellbinding and unchanging. “I pity you. I’m not disgusted.” _Cliff Martinez, Solaris Soundtrack, 2002._ “My grandfather had it.”

Archivists can go for weeks without speaking to face to face. Library science is a solitary job, and the virtual aspect of BiblioTech makes all correspondence possible online. MailDrop for file-sharing. Team Chat for meetings. Short Messaging for person-to-person dialogue, usually urgent.

To get in touch with Soojung, all Kyungsoo would have to do is scan his identification chip over his tablet, download the contact information it took when they hovered hands, and key in his message. Done. Send. Simple.

Instead, he takes his lunch an hour earlier than she does and leaves the office an hour later. He also switches trains, even though his new stop is two blocks away, just so they don’t cross paths. Not at work, not in transit, not at home.

Not after the run-in with the man on the twentieth floor.

_This is one of those situations,_ Kyungsoo thinks to himself, _when a co-worker should avoid another co-worker._

Soojung approaches him first, seventeen days after the incident.

“May I speak with you, Kyungsoo?” Her tone is firm and unembellished. The question is not really a question.

Kyungsoo grants her a single nod. “Of course, Soojung.” He powers off his stylus, pushing it back into his touchpad. It feels like he owes her something, somehow.

Their conversation takes place in the stone garden by the back, where nobody else is around.

Soojung maintains a stoic front. It’s a complete about-face from the shaky, vulnerable woman he’d been witness to at the top floor of his apartment. She stares at Kyungsoo, _really stares at him_ for a loaded moment, before speaking.

“I need a favor.”

That catches him off-guard. He wasn’t sure what to expect in the first place. In the back of his mind, he thought she might apologize for her erratic behavior. Perhaps give him a progress report on her ASD as a courtesy. But a favor—a favor is way out of left field.

“What kind of favor?” Kyungsoo asks, brows knitting in confusion.

“I’ve been summoned for Child-Bearing,” she tells him, point-blank. “I need someone to look out for Jongin while I’m away.” There is no hesitation in her speech or countenance. “I’m asking you, because there’s nobody else.”

“Me?” Kyungsoo flattens his feet into the soles of his shoes. He doesn’t want to stumble from the force of his astonishment. “What makes you think I would indulge this?” _Steady now, Kyungsoo, steady._ “You’re both infected—”

“And you haven’t said a word about it to anyone.” The softening of Soojung’s face begins in her eyes. “I know you haven’t, because I’d be confined to some health center, otherwise, not speaking with you here at work. And Jongin…” she trails off there. A pregnant pause. And then: “They’d take Jongin away from me.”

Kyungsoo knows exactly what happens to disabled people in this era. He looks away, because he doesn’t want to see Soojung’s face when she says it.

“They would stab him full of needles. Try to figure out what caused the impairment at birth. Draw as much of his blood as they could for vaccine trials until he went into hypovolemic shock.” She presses her lips together. “I would never see him again, Kyungsoo. You know that.”

It would be worse, actually. Much worse. Jongin is hiding out in a civilian’s home instead of participating in government-sanctioned rehabilitation. Soojung is pretty much harboring a fugitive. There would be interrogations. Consequences. Nobody would believe they weren’t a couple. Kyungsoo’s not sure he believes it.

“Please.” Quiet and earnest, Soojung presses her hands against her stomach. It must be in knots, like Kyungsoo’s own. “Will you help him while I’m away?”

Kyungsoo clenches his back molars. He needs to say no. He _needs_ to say no. The only answer _is_ no.

But all he can think about is Harabeoji after his grandmother died, lying helplessly on the paillasse that was to become his deathbed. It was old age that got him in the end—ninety-seven whole years of it. The Stage 4 ASD just took all the fight out of him. That’s how much Harabeoji missed her.

“All right,” Kyungsoo verbalizes before he can second-guess himself. He releases his jaw, and blood rushes to his head. “What exactly do you need me to do?”

Jongin sits with his bad leg stretched out in front of him and his good leg folded in. He has high arches in his feet. The muscles in his thighs and calves show through the thin fabric of his house clothes. Were it not for the self-standing crutch next to his chair, Kyungsoo would never have guessed this man was lame.

“You should have asked me first, Soojung.” Jongin’s elbows are on the armrests, and he’s tugging at his fingers. “I can take care of myself.”

“I’m sorry,” Soojung says, eyes soft, body turned into his. “But there are many things you still can’t do alone.”

The corners of Jongin’s mouth curl down. “Like what?”

“Like bathing,” Soojung tells him gently. He looks away from her. “Like answering the door when a package is delivered.”

“I’m not going to order anything.” Jongin’s mouth is set in a grim line, but his eyes are embarrassed. “I’ll live off groceries until you come back.”

“You can’t cook.” Soojung places her hand over the tangle of his. “Are you going to eat powdered meals for nine months?”

“That’s the plan.”

“And what happens when those run out? You’ll have to order more, won’t you?” She laces their fingers together, and Jongin looks up. “You’ll have to order something, sometime, and when you answer the door, they’ll see your leg.”

“So don’t leave me,” Jongin mutters with a note of desperation that Kyungsoo picks up loud and clear. “Ignore the Child-Bearing notice. Let’s just get out of here, Soojung.”

“Come on.” That’s impatience coiling in Soojung’s voice. Kyungsoo picks up on that, too. “Be reasonable.”

“Can’t.” The man reaches for his crutch, pushing himself to his feet. He has schooled his expression into feigned ambivalence. “Stage Four, remember?”

“Make sure they don’t find out about you then,” Kyungsoo says, breaking the silence he’s held for a good half-hour. “They put Stage Fours to sleep if they don’t manage to execute themselves first.”

He’d used a neutral tone to state these facts; nothing more than his usual. But Soojung looks as though he’d just hurled a string of profanity at them.

There is levity in Jongin’s expression when he says, “Yes, I’m well aware.” His hair falls over his brow when he turns in Soojung’s direction. “At least I won’t die of boredom with this one, huh, Sooj?”

Her eyes glint. “Don’t even joke about that. Do you know how difficult this has been on the outside?” Her tongue darts out to moisten her lips, and Kyungsoo can tell she’s angry. “I go to work every single day, pretending that I’m fine, that I’m not Stage Three. When I saw that summons from the Bureau of Health on my desk yesterday morning, I thought I’d finally been found out.”

All the amusement in Jongin’s face falls away. “Soojung-ah…”

“Just be easy, Jongin.” Her lower lashes are clumping together. “Just be easy with me, and let Kyungsoo see to you while I’m gone.”

“Okay.” Jongin nods from where he’s standing. Only once, but quickly. “All right. If that’s what you want.”

The silent sigh makes Soojung’s chest swell up. She shuts her eyes, smiling imperceptibly. Her relief is as clear as the paint on the walls.

Kyungsoo is fascinated by her body language, and by the reaction it pulls out of the other man in the room. Jongin’s boneless stance and frantic pupils make it seem like he wants to punch himself.

_How many emotions,_ Kyungsoo wonders, _can a person experience in a moment?_

“Will you come to me, Soojung?” Jongin requests. His words are tender, like he’s kneaded them under his knuckles a hundred times. “I’d go over to you, but my leg is starting to throb.”

Soojung rises from her seat, crossing the room. She draws a blister pack from her back pocket and pops a single tablet from it. Kyungsoo recognizes the packaging instantly. Chewable Vitamin S.

“Here, Nini.” Soojung holds the tablet up to Jongin’s lips. “For your leg.”

He opens up obediently, and she places the medicine on his tongue.

“When you have ASD,” Soojung tells Kyungsoo over her shoulder, “sertraline doesn’t serve its purpose anymore. Not in the later stages, anyway, when emotion takes over completely.” The foil of the blister pack crinkles between her fingers. “But it does help numb physical pain, so you can use it as an analgesic.”

“I see.” Later, Kyungsoo will ask how much Jongin can take in a day. Later. Right now, the air is charged with tension. “Thank you.”

“Thank you,” Jongin parrots, a beat behind. But he says this delicately, not dutifully, and to Soojung, not Kyungsoo. “I owe you an apology.”

Soojung gazes up at her towering, unshaven invalid. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes,” Jongin insists, “I do.” He pulls her against his chest with the hand that isn’t gripping the crutch. His forehead drops to her shoulder. “Sorry.”

Kyungsoo observes this little tête-à-tête with relative detachment. He’s almost impressed with himself. It’s remarkable how quickly he has grown accustomed to their behavior; the impulsiveness of their moods, the intimacy of their touch. Less than three weeks ago, he’d been scandalized by a fingertip grazing a bruise. Today, he feels only the faintest discomfiture—like he has trespassed on a scene that would have otherwise been kept secret.

“You take care of me so well,” Jongin admits into the safety of Soojung’s skin. He seems upset, if the elevation in his voice is indicative of anything. “I’m always so stubborn.”

“Not always,” Soojung whispers back, and Jongin issues a sound similar to a chuckle.

Then Soojung turns her face in a telltale way, and instinctively, Kyungsoo knows what’s about to happen. When her lips brush against Jongin’s temple—a textbook display of affection—Kyungsoo doesn’t even blink.

He does note an odd tickle at his sternum; a buzz of restlessness he’s never felt before. Nothing more, nothing less.

ASD is undetectable in blood and urine. It can only be screened through spinal fluid, which is not involved in any of the tests Soojung will have to undergo. Kyungsoo assures her of this on her last day at work, before her Child-Bearing leave begins.

“Just keep doing what you’ve been doing,” he tells her in the stone garden. “Be professional and compliant. Keep to yourself. Control your reaction to any mention of ASD. It registers on your face immediately.”

Soojung has been turning over to her associates all morning. Her face is wan. “Is that how you found me out?”

“Yes.” Kyungsoo crosses his arms over his chest. “It was easy.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Soojung replies, not quite making eye contact. Her exhale is long and deep, like it comes from a place much older than her body. “I’m sorry if Jongin is in a foul mood when you pass by tonight. He was really upset when I left the apartment.”

Kyungsoo makes an effort to calibrate his tone. He doesn’t want to appear calloused. “For people like you two, I suppose a nine-month separation must seem insurmountable.”

Slow and sure, a cloud passes over Soojung’s face. “It does.” And then the cloud is pierced by flashes of emotion Kyungsoo can’t decipher. An infinitesimal thunderstorm. “Painful, too.” It stays with him long after she has gone.

He resumes work immediately. BiblioTech has acquired a three hundred-page bundle of the manuscript for _Atlas Shrugged,_ so Ayn Rand is on Kyungsoo’s work plan for the next few weeks.

The author’s penmanship is like chicken scratch, and her writing dips crookedly because the pages are unlined. He doesn’t mind, though—archiving this manuscript will bring him a sense of accomplishment. That, and lines like these, scribbled with a zealousness that renders them almost indecipherable:

“But you see,” John Galt says to Dagny Taggart, “the measure of hell you’re able to endure is the measure of your love.

Kyungsoo takes a screen capture with his stylus, moving the excerpt into a folder filled with similar things he’s collected. It’s an interesting concept—one he cannot relate to, but interesting, nonetheless. At the very least, it’s something that could break the ice with Jongin, who has eluded conversation since the day Kyungsoo met him.

Tonight, Kyungsoo takes the elevator of his apartment building all the way up to the penthouse.

He raps on one of the double doors, just like Soojung instructed him. There is shuffling from inside. Then the doors slide apart, and there stands the man he came to see, propped up against an ergonomic crutch.

“Hello, Jongin,” Kyungsoo says.

“Hello.” Jongin limps aside. Resignation is a blanket wrapped around his lean frame. “Come in.”

Soojung has asked Kyungsoo to help with three things: cooking for Jongin, helping him bathe, and replenishing supplies. She’s placed a lump sum of money into a separate bank account, which Kyungsoo can access at any time. Jongin, too. Just in case.

“You bought groceries,” Jongin notes flatly, as Kyungsoo pulls ingredients out of a canvas bag.

He lays them out on the kitchen counter. “Yes.” Mushrooms, garlic, kelp. “Soojung said to feed you _beoseot jeongol_.”

Jongin nods. “It’s my favorite.” He fingers a bundle of enoki. “My maternal figure used to make mushroom stew for me when she still was alive.”

“I see.” Kyungsoo leaves a pot of broth to boil. He busies his hands with chopping the watercress. “When did she pass?”

“When I was seventeen. Traffic accident.”

“And your paternal figure?

Wistfulness falls like water over Jongin’s face. “He passed shortly after. Psychosomatic heart failure.”

“Oh.” It is faint and fleeting, but Kyungsoo definitely feels a prick between his lungs. He furrows his brow. “Just like my grandparents.”

Jongin eyes him strangely. “It’s funny you still call them that. You said ‘grandfather,’ too, on the day we met. I figured someone so…by-the-book would have eradicated all notions of family by now.”

“I probably would have,” Kyungsoo tells him, “had I not been raised by my grandparents. They were both Stage Four, like you.” He drops a pile of green and brown things into the pot, stirring gently. Some of the broth bubbles up. Something in Kyungsoo does, too. “My mother and father passed in a plane crash when I was a toddler.”

Jongin keeps staring at him. Kyungsoo stares back, nonplussed—although the faint and fleeting prick from earlier now persists in the same spot.

It seems like minutes before Jongin blinks away. He tosses the enoki he’d been toying with into the pot with the other ingredients. “I didn’t realize we had so much in common.”

The remainder of Kyungsoo’s cooking passes like the entirety of their shared meal—in silence. It’s not uncomfortable, though; just tranquil. Kyungsoo doesn’t bother bringing up the quote from Ayn Rand, in case it comes off unnatural.

Jongin clears the dishes himself. He stacks the bowls, spoons, and steel chopsticks in one hand and pivots towards the kitchen with surprising grace. “I’m not a complete invalid,” he articulates. “No matter what Soojung tells you.”

“She’s never called you one.” Kyungsoo dabs the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “It is clear, even to me, how much she cares for you.”

Jongin is placing the bowls and utensils in the dishwasher. His back is turned. Kyungsoo observes the rise and fall of his shoulders, the lines of his back, and the tapering of his waist. He wonders how someone with a defective leg could manage to look like a dancer, long and strong, even from behind.

The sound of churning water means the machine has been switched on. “Are you going to help me bathe now?” Jongin asks quietly. He’s turned back around to lean against the sink. “Soojung said…”

“You’re going to have to give me directions.” Kyungsoo clears his throat. It’s particularly dry. “I’ve never given anyone a bath before. My grandfather had nurses.”

“You’ll have to touch my skin.” Jongin is avoiding eye contact, but Kyungsoo can make out the rosiness on his forehead. “I can clean myself, mostly, but I need help getting in and out of the tub.”

“You should have chosen an apartment with more accessibility.” There is lightness in Kyungsoo’s tone; a texture akin to humor. He’s trying it on for size. “A shower set-up would have been wiser.”

“There _is_ a shower,” Jongin says feebly, “but it malfunctioned the week we moved in. Soojung was too afraid to expose me to let a plumbing operator into the apartment.” His expression darkens by a degree, and Kyungsoo remembers, acutely, the thunderstorm in Soojung’s face. “She was fearless when we were growing up, you know? Like a heroine in a novel. I made her afraid of so many things.”

Kyungsoo isn’t equipped to respond to helplessness. He’s always been a man of few words, and a paragon of practicality. So when the sentence, “You made her braver, too,” leaves his mouth, he doesn’t know where it comes from.

Jongin’s eyes travel slowly from the floor to his face. They’re as deep and intelligent as he remembers, but sharper now, with the edge of knowing. His mouth, in contrast, looks as soft as a woman’s.

Kyungsoo catches himself staring at it. “I have to leave soon,” he manages to say. The single, painless prick has morphed into the twinge of a sore muscle. He can’t shake himself of it, even with a shake of the head. “Teach me what to do for your bath, and I’ll remember next time.”

Touch was banned in the same year identification chips became obligatory. The ban was only a formality, as the integration of Vitamin S into human life greatly diminished the need to touch.

Sertraline ruled out all emotions: love, lust, jealousy, anger, disgust, grief, fear. Violence decreased. In Vitro Fertilization increased, then became the norm. Even shaking hands was deemed unnecessary after the launch of the in-palm microchip. Why touch when you could simply hover?

This, they said, was the sign of a rational society.

And that, Kyungsoo tells himself, is why his heart beats faster than a snare in one of Harabeoji’s jazz albums when Jongin asks for help undressing.

“I can do my shirt,” Jongin explains, gnawing at his lips, “but Soojung helps me with the bottoms.”

They touch six times.

**One:** When Kyungsoo hooks his thumbs into the elastic of the house pants, a knuckle grazes Jongin’s hipbone. They both freeze.

Kyungsoo’s swallow makes a sticky sound. “You’re wearing undergarments,” he mutters, focusing on the cotton of Jongin’s briefs as he puts space between his knuckle and the skin. “Do I remove those, too?”

**Two:** When Jongin nods, face flaming, Kyungsoo has to dig back in with two fingers. He hooks them into the sides of the briefs, so he can drag those down along with Jongin’s pants. His thumbs are flush against Jongin’s skin when he peels off the clothing, and his forefingers leave dotted lines of contact when the elastic resists him.

At Jongin’s sharp inhale, he is forced to look up. “What’s wrong?”

Jongin’s face is still flushed. Kyungsoo thinks he might be embarrassed, but the look in his eyes is different from shame. Shame is a weakness in the lids, a shadow over the pupils. This look is shiny, and it comes with the parting of Jongin’s mouth.

“Jongin?” Kyungsoo stills his hands. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” Jaw clenched, Jongin glues his pupils to the ground.

His pants and underwear are halfway over his buttocks. Kyungsoo had started in the back on purpose. One more inch, and Jongin would be completely laid bare for Kyungsoo to see.

Suddenly, he gets it. “Are you ashamed?” It’s like the words are rolling off of someone else’s tongue. “I can move behind you.”

“Just keep going.” The fingers on Jongin’s right hand curl into a ball. “I’ll need to get used to you seeing me naked.”

That last word makes Kyungsoo a little warm behind the neck. But he sticks to his task, gently tugging the fabric down to Jongin’s thighs. The other hand balls itself up. Kyungsoo averts his eyes, focusing on the sinews of Jongin’s knees and the curves of his calves.

**Three:** When Kyungsoo finally gets the garments to Jongin’s ankles, he feels the ginger touch of a palm on his shoulder.

“I’m going to step out of these clothes now.” Jongin sounds a little calmer. Kyungsoo will not risk a glance at his face. “I’m sorry to have to hold on to you.”

Fingers tighten over his shoulder. Jongin lifts his bad leg; then quickly, his good one. He holds on, both feet flat on the tile, as Kyungsoo moves the clothes away, so no one can slip on them.

**Four:** When the bathwater is ready, Jongin slings his arm, all at once, over Kyungsoo’s neck.

“I have to rest against you now.” Jongin is completely naked and pleasantly warm, pressed up against Kyungsoo’ side like this. “Please help me in.”

With the caution of a person carrying a sheet of glass, Kyungsoo keeps still as Jongin hoists himself into the tub.

**Five:** When he falters on a misstep, Kyungsoo grabs onto his waist and wrist. Jongin shivers under his touch, mumbling apologies—but Kyungsoo’s reaction had felt like second nature. It is the incessant pound-pound-pounding in his body (a bass drum, not a snare) that seems completely out of character.

He melds his hands skin and muscle, ignoring the percussion in his chest, until Jongin has lowered himself into the water.

“I can do the rest of this on my own,” Jongin murmurs. He flexes the hand he’d placed on Kyungsoo’s shoulder. Just once. Then he submerges it underwater. “Thank you.”

“Call for me when you’re ready,” Kyungsoo replies. “I’ll just clean up.”

The bath lasts eighteen minutes. Kyungsoo wipes down the kitchen counter and segregates the waste. He puts the rest of the _beoseot jeongol_ in the fridge, so Jongin can have it for lunch (Soojung said he didn’t eat breakfast). He checks the water supply, too, to make sure there’s enough to last twenty-four hours, when he’ll be back.

Soojung has scribbled an e-note on the touch screen of the refrigerator.

_Hello, Kyungsoo._ He can hear the timbre of her voice. _I know you’ll read this. Thank you, so much, for all your help. We are indebted to you for the rest of our lives._

A spongy feeling nuzzles against Kyungsoo’s ribs. It feels like the down on an dog’s belly, warm and soft and strangely comforting.

Then he notices a second tab on the e-note, and without thinking, taps it.

_I love you, Jongin,_ Soojung has written. _Goodbye._

**Six:** When Jongin has rinsed, Kyungsoo helps him out of the tub, just like he helped him into it. Under his hands, Jongin’s skin is wet and smooth, with a little slip to it from the soap residue. Jongin’s arm leaves a damp crescent over Kyungsoo’s shoulders. It’s still warm.

He makes Jongin sit on the edge of the tub to get toweled off. The towel is fluffy and thick, an expensive kind of cotton that shields them both from direct touch.

“Soojung left you a note on the refrigerator,” Kyungsoo ventures, rubbing the towel over dripping hair.

A change of clothes is in Jongin’s lap, covering his privates. Later, he will put on them on with minimal help from Kyungsoo—and miraculously no touching.

“I know.” Jongin’s hands grip the tub on either side of his hips. “You, too.”

He says this so blasé, and curiosity is too quick an animal for Kyungsoo to cage. “Does she tell you she loves you often?”

The edge of the tub squeaks discreetly where Jongin’s thumb rubs over it. “No,” is his reluctant answer. If Kyungsoo knew him better—and three brief encounters are not enough to know—he might consider it unhappy. “That was the first time.”

***

_Written in October 2016._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from [the song of the same name](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fgT601wKe7I) by Telefon Tel Aviv. Please listen to that—and to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sBHfXWX5lsw)—while you read. Heavily inspired by the film _Equals_.


	5. City of Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bright lights, big stage, and the secret love from his boyhood. That's all Jongin really wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Kaisoo  
> Genre: celebrity!au  
> Rating: PG-13  
> Length: 4,800 words

They meet when they are seventeen, by the Hangang Ferry Pier, at dusk.

Jongin is immersed in the stripes of the horizon, cold sapphire and golden orange dancing in the water. He can still make out the lights of his sister’s boat in the periphery, and the faint, foamy outline of its trail in the river. He loves this time of day—the hour-and-a-half between his school letting out and his sister getting off her part-time job as a river ferry tour guide. An hour-and-a-half of waiting on this pier, all by himself, with nothing but the sky in his eyes and the songs in his ears and the chill of the spring to keep him company.

By the time his sister gets back to the pier, the stripes of the horizon will have bled into one another, pure indigo—and the water that was their stage will be a mirror for the moon.

The song on Jongin’s mp3 player switches to the next (his favorite one, from a movie). His fingers press invisible piano keys on the iron railing of the pier, and he forgets the sky and the moon to sing along.

Somewhere between the final verse and the chorus, when Jongin’s so deep into the music that the scenes from the movie are replaying before his eyes, he feels a tap at his back. He turns his head, expecting a tourist and already annoyed by the disturbance, only to find a boy his age.

A scarf is thrust into his face. “Is this yours?” The voice is deeper than Jongin expects, considering its owner only comes up to his shoulder. The boy has doughy cheeks and too-long bangs that flop into his face. Not long enough to cover his eyes, though, which glare right back at Jongin like a reflection in a window.

It’s almost funny, the way they’re scowling at each other, and how unfazed this tiny person is by the full head Jongin has on him. A grin teases at the corner of Jongin’s mouth. The boy notices before Jongin can conceal it.

“It was on the ground behind you,” the boy explains, glaring some more. “I almost tripped over it.” His voice stays low and even. “Is it yours?”

The scarf is a black woolly thing Jongin’s never seen before. He almost replies with a flat-out “no” before he sees the white initials embroidered into a corner. _Wait a minute,_ he thinks to himself, brows coming together. _J.A.?_

Jung Ah-noona marks her clothes so their eldest sister can’t pilfer them from the girls’ shared closet. She must’ve dropped this scarf earlier when she hugged Jongin hello/goodbye, just before her boat left. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Jongin doesn’t know how she ended up being the older sibling and he the younger, when she’s always losing all her stuff and he’s somehow always getting it back for her.

He takes the scarf and dusts it off. “I think it’s my sister’s,” he tells the boy. Then he bows, letting the tension on his face yield to sheepishness. “Sorry.”

The boy shrugs. “Okay.” His glare flattens into a look of pure boredom, as though someone has flipped an invisible switch. He starts to walk away—and an emoticon flashes behind Jongin’s eyelids:

-___-

The peal of laughter that escapes him is nothing short of riotous. It’s like a marching band has toppled all over itself with the horns mid-blare and the cymbals still crashing.

The boy stops in his tracks. There’s the glare again. “What?” he demands, and Jongin registers another emoticon between gulps of air:

>(

He cackles again, ear bud falling from its perch behind his lobe. “No—” he tries to get out. “Sorry!”

Tiny Person strides up to him, teeth clenched and chin out. “Are you laughing at me?”

“No,” Jongin sputters. “I mean, yes, but—” The boy’s eyes round out in disbelief. He actually looks kind of scary. Jongin sobers up immediately. “I was just reminded of something when you looked at me. Something…funny.” He clears his throat. His bottom lip tucks itself into his mouth. “Sorry…”

It’s the third time he’s apologized in three minutes.

Those beady eyes lock onto him, twin bullets on a target. The silence is filled by the breeze skirting over the river and the tinny sounds of music coming through Jongin’s ear buds.

Then the boy cracks a smile—a small, slow crescent that takes Jongin by surprise.

“You’re kind of dumb,” his companion murmurs, taking a step back. “How old are you?”

Jongin frowns. “I’m not dumb.” He yanks the drawstrings of his hoodie. “I’m seventeen.”

“Oh.” The boy cocks a bushy brow. “We’re the same age. I thought you were younger.”

“I thought _you_ were younger.” Jongin scratches the side of his cheek. “And I’m not dumb.”

“All right,” the boy says carelessly, like it doesn’t matter if Jongin is or isn’t. “I know that song you’re listening to.” He gestures at the ear buds dangling from Jongin’s neck. “John Mayer, right?”

“Right.” Jongin is still frowning. He doesn’t like it, being made light of by a stranger—even though he’d just done the same thing. For now, he decides to be cordial. “Where do you go to school?”

“SOPA.” The boy stuffs his fists into his jeans. It’s cold out, now that the sun has set. The way he’s standing with his hands hidden and his narrow shoulders hitched up to his neck makes him look even tinier. “You?”

“That’s weird.” Jongin tilts his head. “I go to SOPA, too.”

“Never seen you around.”

“Me either. I mean, you…either.” Jongin’s sigh is audible. Words are hard. “What department?”

“Theatre and Film.”

“I’m in Practical Music.”

“Ah.” The boy’s foot kicks out lazily, scraping against concrete. “So you want to be an idol when you grow up.”

“No way,” Jongin snorts. “I want to play the piano.”

That seems to impress. “Are you any good?”

“Trying to be.” Jongin reaches into the pocket of his hoodie and finally turns his music off. “Are you any good at acting?”

“Trying to be,” the boy parrots, flipping his bangs off his forehead. “That’s why I’ve got to stay in school.”

The grin Jongin hid earlier peeks out again. “Will you use a stage name?”

The boy shakes his head, lip curling in disdain. The bluster of the wind forces his hair back into his face at an odd angle. He looks like a mop caught in a dryer.

“No _way_ ,” he snorts back. Jongin would make a comment on how much copycatting is going on had the two words held less conviction. The boy crosses his arms decidedly. “Did you know they wanted Leonardo DiCaprio to change his name to Lenny Williams when he was starting out? Ridiculous.”

Jongin deepens his grin. This boy fluctuates between impassive and intense—just one or the other, save for that rogue smile. It’s fun watching the shifts in his expressions; the juxtaposition of a babyface and villain eyes.

“That is ridiculous.”

The boy issues a sound of approval. “Everyone in my class thinks so, too.”

Jongin can’t think of anything to say that, so he doesn’t say anything at all. Just hums and fiddles with the aglet of his drawstring, waiting, but also not waiting.

Somewhere in the distance, a ballad begins. “Etude of Memory” by Kim Dong Ryul, mournful minor key. The deep voice and nostalgic piano chords carry through the air, echoing over the water. Jung Ah-noona’s boat is completely out of sight. It’s just the river and the trees, and beyond them, the skyline.

The boy leans against the railing, an arm’s length away from Jongin. They listen to the old song until it ends. This time, the silence that swells between them is comfortable—as comfortable as it gets between two seventeen-year-olds who don’t know each other’s names.

Jongin asks first. “What _is_ your name, anyway?” It feels abrupt in hindsight, so he caveats the question: “Since you seem so proud of it.”

“I am,” Tiny Person quips, not skipping a beat. “It’s my dad’s name.”

The expression on his face is half-pissed, half-polite. Jongin knows well enough by now that the real emotion is neither.

“Do Kyungsoo,” the boy says simply. “That’s my name.”

For some strange reason, Jongin feels a sense of accomplishment. He winds the scarf around his wrist, over, under. “I’m Kim Jongin.”

They nod in unison, having gotten the hard stuff out of the way. After that, there is no more small talk. Jongin holds out an ear bud, and this Kyungsoo accepts.

For an hour-and-a-half, they shuffle through the mp3 player, looking for songs they like in common. They listen to John Mayer, to Norah Jones, to Rufus Wainwright, humming in the dark, waiting for Jung Ah-noona to return.

Ten years later, they’re sitting in the KBS cafeteria having breakfast when John Mayer croons through the speakers.

“God, we’re old,” Kyungsoo groans, forking at a shard of chicken breast. “Do you remember this song?”

Jongin slurps up his ramen. “Course.” The broth is thick with egg and cheese, and the spice feels great on his sore throat. He sniffs loudly through the one nostril that isn’t blocked up. This cold has had its hooks in him for days. “Ah, this is so good.”

He can feel Kyungsoo’s glare before he even sees it. “Do you have to eat that in front of me?”

“Not my fault you’re on a diet,” Jongin says pleasantly, licking sesame oil off his lips. “You’re the one who insisted on some reedy college kid role when your metabolism is pushing thirty.”

“I’m twenty-seven,” the actor snipes. Jongin chuckles into his final spoonful of broth. “And they said the part was written for me. It’s not like I could turn it down, Jongin.”

“Oh, the price of fame.” Jongin leans across the table to ruffle his hair. “Don’t worry, Soo. You’ll still be popular with a little meat on you.”

Kyungsoo scowls into his lunch. It’s sweet potatoes and chicken breast again, like it has been for the past month. No seasoning, not even a little oil to moisten the chicken when Kyungsoo bites into it. Jongin knows how dry it is because he’d been forced to eat it once. (He’d teased Kyungsoo a little too much that day.)

“Shut up.” When Kyungsoo chews his food, it like he’s working on a wad of gum. “You’re lucky you can eat whatever you want and _still_ not gain weight.”

Jongin beams, Buddha-like. “Good genes.”

Kyungsoo sighs, and the melancholy in it speaks of how much he misses flavor. Jongin almost feels bad for him. “Asshole.” Almost. “You sure you don’t want to be an actor?”

“Yeah, I’m sure, Soo.” Jongin checks his phone. Mealtime’s over. “I gotta go.” He wipes his mouth with a paper napkin. “They’re waiting for me.”

“Are you serious?” A wrinkle surfaces between Kyungsoo’s brows. “You’ve been here ten minutes.”

“Twenty,” Jongin corrects him, already getting up. “We’re doing a pre-recording for Music Bank.”

“You said you just came from a pre-recording, though?”

“No, I said it was a rehearsal for Open Concert. You’re thinking about our pre-recording from yesterday, for M! Countdown.”

Kyungsoo reels in his seat, blowing out his lips. “Tough being an idol.”

“I’m not an idol.” Jongin slides his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans. He picks up his takeout coffee cup. “I’m in a band.”

“Okay, oppa.”

Jongin laughs out loud, amusement bubbling through him like fizzy cola. The girls in the next table look over at him. Or maybe they’re looking at Kyungsoo, who’s grinning wider than a Cheshire cat.

“Oppa, fighting!” Kyungsoo stage-whispers, pumping his fists in the air—and the girls pull out their camera phones, squealing.

Suddenly, Jongin doesn’t feel like laughing anymore. He’s gotten used to it by now—the way he and the band members and all the other “famous people” he knows are treated like curiosities. Fame is a museum in which photography is allowed at all times and no displays are off-limits. He’s gotten used to it, the attention, after four years in the business. He’s grateful for it, really. Sometimes, he still can’t believe he, _they_ , made it.

But it doesn’t make him feel any less exposed when a stranger takes a photo of him and Kyungsoo together.

“Bye, Soo.” Jongin keeps his smile soft and his eyes gentle. He acknowledges the girls with a polite bow. They giggle at him, covering their mouths, cameras still taking aim.

As a rookie, Jongin had been accused of being aloof and conceited for avoiding eye contact with overzealous fans. He just wasn’t accustomed to people violating his personal space. Not yet.

He never made that mistake again.

Only the closest of his friends can tell when he’s uncomfortable. “Good luck at MuBank,” Kyungsoo murmurs, the little twist in his mouth communicating sympathy. He’s good at concealing things, too, so only Jongin can make it out. “I voted for you. Ten times.”

The girls squeal again, not bothering to modulate their voices. _How sweet, oh my god, they’re so close, bromance._

Jongin chooses to drown that out. He focuses on the most important thing, and his smile loses a bit of its stiffness. “Thanks, sunbae.”

Kyungsoo gives him a cute little wave. The understanding in his eyes is comforting. “Bye, Jonginnie.”

By the time he gets to the Music Bank studio, the spring is back in Jongin’s step—and the armor over his heart.

Their band is called New Feel. The name is taken from a Frank Ocean song, and it means “the sensation of experiencing something for the very first time.” There’s a nice ring to that every time reporters ask for an explanation.

New Feel has four members: Byun Baekhyun on vocals, Park Chanyeol on bass and guitar, Kim Jongin on keyboard, and Oh Sehun on drums. Their first single, co-written by Chanyeol and Jongin, is a sleeper hit. It takes 26 weeks to penetrate Melon—a six-month period of part-time jobbery and second-guessing. But it gets there. And then it climbs up, up, up the charts until it gets to No. 1. Melon, Gaon, Naver, Olleh, Soribada, everywhere. All-kill.

Jongin and the rest of New Feel witness this digital domination in complete shock. Suddenly, they’re famous. Their single, released just before Christmas, is the song of summer. The magazines call them “Baby Coldplay,” which Chanyeol revels in and Jongin balks at. He tells their management (yes, they have management now) they’ll never live up to the hype. Management tells him hype is king.

“Your music will make them listen,” says the CEO, as New Feel gears up for a national tour. “And your faces will make them loyal.”

Jongin shares this with Kyungsoo in indignation the day the band leaves for Busan.

Kyungsoo’s flipping through a drama script, highlighting his lines with a bright yellow marker. He’s playing another highschooler in this one—his fifth highschooler in two years.

“Well, he’s right, Jongin.”

“What do you mean?” Jongin demands, pacing the room. They’re still living together at this point in a cozy little Hongdae studio. “You always used to complain about idols getting cast in acting roles ‘for the visuals.’”

“That’s before I started getting cast for _my_ visuals,” Kyungsoo mutters, more sarcastic than smug. “And before I knew how hard it was to get cast _at all_.”

“Oh, come on,” Jongin pshaws. “You’re a good actor, Soo. Your success has as much to do with that as it does with your…I dunno, _flower-face_.”

“Right back at you.” Kyungsoo cocks the brow of triumph. “There’s nothing wrong with being handsome, Jongin.”

Jongin realizes, of course, that he’s painted himself into a corner. He groans, plopping down in front of Kyungsoo’s chair and pouting at this turn of events. _“Soo.”_

Kyungsoo pats him on the head. _There, there, little one._ Jongin would have never let him do this back when they were at SOPA—still teenagers, still peers. But Kyungsoo had debuted at nineteen, two years after they met, in a little indie that made it all the way to the Berlinale. This makes him superior in Jongin’s eyes—superior to everyone, except maybe Joonymun-hyung. So he allows himself to be petted, and he brings the debate to an end.

“You’ll see,” Kyungsoo says, deep voice and delicate fingers tempting Jongin’s eyes shut. He’s never really gotten immune to it: that low, velvet tone. “It’s not selling out, Jongin. At least, not forever. It’s a lot of flashy marketing in the beginning, but if you work really, really, really hard, you can be a real artist.”

“You sound so sure about that,” Jongin mumbles. He feels, strangely, like he’s floating. “What happened to the jaded Do Kyungsoo I’ve known since I was a kid?”

Kyungsoo tugs his bangs. “He’s still jaded about everything.” Then he lets Jongin go. “But you’ll always be the exception.”

Jongin thinks about that moment often.

He doubts Kyungsoo even remembers.

The new Music Bank host seems tense, judging by the quiver in her microphone. “Next up is New Feel,” she says brightly, brilliant smile masking her nerves. “The Flower Boy Band come to life!”

Jongin would feel bad for her if he weren’t so slighted by what she’s saying. He knows she’s just doing her job, just staying on script, but—

“For the nth time,” Sehun mutters under his breath, “we’re a band. Just a band, dammit.”

Jongin can’t help grinning at him. The hyungs are, too; everyone heard it, save for this poor girl. Chanyeol’s Chiclet chompers are on full display, and Baekhyun’s faux dimple is popping in a half-smirk. All four of them have always operated on the same wavelength since they met in college—and Sehun’s always been the same sarcastic brat since Jongin met him in kindergarten.

Jongin leans in close so his lips are behind Sehun’s ear. “Calm down, Sehunnie.”

A million girls scream at their proximity. Sehun simpers. “You were thinking it, too~”

“Sure,” Jongin says, cocking a brow. More screams. He’ll see the GIFs later. “But I restrain myself from saying so on live television.”

The host is in conversation now with Chanyeol and Baekhyun, the chatterboxes of the band. Chanyeol uses a light touch when he flirts with her—just enough to put her at ease, but not enough to incur the wrath of their most rabid fans. They’re doing a corny scripted bit wherein Baekhyun asks if she prefers singers to bassists. The host responds with over-explained ambiguity, and the audience with, _“BOTH!”_

“Don’t give me that Do Kyungsoo powerbrow.” Sehun swats at Jongin’s chest. “You can’t pull it off.”

Jongin pokes him deep in the bellybutton and gets yelped at it return. “Brat.” 

Sehun’s ready to call a truce now, which explains why his fingers are worming through Jongin’s in a crosshatch. The level of screams can only be described as violent. Twitter’s going to have a field day with this stage—and the band hasn’t even gotten around to performing yet.

Jongin sighs, elbowing Sehun in the ribs.

The maknae curls into his side like an overgrown kitten. “Is Kyungsoo-hyung watching our performance?”

“I’m not sure.” Jongin swings their arms—might as well go with the fanservice. These people have been waiting hours for them. “I think he’s filming his drama.”

“He said he would though.” Sehun puffs out his cheeks. Squealing ensues. “I’ll text him after to see if he monitored the stage.”

“If we ever get around _to_ the stage,” Jongin laughs, glancing over to where Chanyeol and Baekhyun are vying for the host’s affection. “All this flirting is taking forever.”

She’s actually really pretty, this new face, the longer Jongin looks at her. Peach-blonde hair, strawberry lips, hazelnut eyes. Her face is the shape of a heart, and her voice is clear, like running water. She doesn’t seem half as nervous as she was before.

Chanyeol really _is_ great with girls.

Half-jokingly, Jongin murmurs, “Think we should get in on it?”

“Get in on what? This _We Got Married_ flirtathon?”

“Yeah, this _We Got Mar—_ yeah.”

“If we did,” Sehun says in the sagest of tones, gently pushing back his hair, “I’d obliterate you all.”

Jongin makes sure to tattle on him to the rest of the band when they’re back in the dressing room.

“Cocky little shit.” Baekhyun tries to slap their youngest on the butt. He misses comically.

Sehun is running circles around him in glee. Their set had gone well, even better than expected, and they’re all in high spirits.

“Hyung~” Sehun singsongs, “you were flat on the second song.”

Baekhyun swipes at him, and their chase persists—Baekhyun bellowing, Sehun slipping and sliding. Chanyeol and Jongin observe them with detachment in the background.

“It’s like Tom and Jerry,” Jongin says, rubbing off his eyeliner with a cleansing wipe.

“Or Jerry Springer,” Chanyeol jokes as Baekhyun grabs a handful of Sehun’s perfectly styled hair.

Their phones ping in their pockets all at once.

“Soo texted.” Chanyeol does the honors of reading the message out loud. “‘Sehunnie, you looked constipated today.’”

Sehun preens. “Best constipated face in Seoul.”

“‘Yeol, you looked handsome—weird.’” Chanyeol guffaws at this. “‘Baekhyun, your BB cream finally matches, but you were flat on the second song.’”

“See!” Sehun exults, stamping his feet and wiggling his butt.

Baekhyun digs into his pocket for his own phone. “What the hell!”

“‘Nice piano, Jongin,’” the message concludes. “‘From New Feel’s No.1 fan.’ _Bawww_.” Chanyeol types out his reply, being purposely schmaltzy about it. “ _Wuv you, oppa_.”

“He’s gonna kill you.” Jongin fishes out his phone so he can see the text, too. “I don’t know why you keep baiting him with that shit.”

“He does the oppa thing now, too,” Chanyeol protests, reaching for a cleansing wipe. His face is shiny with cover-up. “I just love it when he gets mad. He’s like a teething gerbil.”

“I’m telling him you said that,” Jongin muses, tapping the unread message icon on his homescreen. There are two, both from Kyungsoo—the group message he’d sent to everyone, and one just for Jongin.

_Hey_

_New song’s great_

_I mean it_

_And you should play the Steinway more often_

_It looks cooler than the keyboard_

(Jongin smiles.)

_Get some rest tonight_

_You’ve had that cold for a week_

The twinge behind his sternum is a familiar one, like his old dance injury. Jongin used to study ballet when he was a kid, right before he fell in love with the piano—and sometimes, when it’s really cold out, the right side of his waist aches from an early fall. He thought he would dance professionally when he grew up, and he trained hard enough to, in those days. Now dance is just a distant memory, a phantom pain right below his ribcage. But he’s never thought about it with regret.

This twinge _is_ regret. That’s the difference. It is constant sorrow, it is quiet disgrace, and above all, it’s a secret.

_Thanks,_ Jongin replies simply. _I will. See you tomorrow, Soo._

Jongin thinks about that moment often. His head inches from Kyungsoo’s lap. His hands balling into fists. Fingers threading through his hair. Honey voice sinking in. _You’ll always be the exception_.

It’s not because he needs an ego boost from time to time—even though that probably counts as one of the top three nicest things Kyungsoo has ever said to him.

And it’s not because it was the last conversation he and Kyungsoo had as celebrity and civilian—even though Jongin remembers how quickly anonymity became a luxury in that era. New Feel took off big time after that train to Busan. Kyungsoo was right.

It stays with him well into the tour and long after the last show date. It’s there with him when he jots down new lyrics on paper napkins to run by Chanyeol. It lingers in the studio, clinging to Jongin’s notes, when the band comes together to record the second album, and the third, and then the fourth. On nights he can’t sleep, it comes to him unbidden, déjà vu. And it’s hard to admit it, but Jongin knows exactly why.

That moment, he knows, changed everything.

When Kyungsoo told him he was the exception—his small hands in Jongin’s hair and his silky breath in Jongin’s ear—a telltale heart skipped a beat.

Jongin runs into the Music Bank host two weeks later at a luncheon. Or, to put it more accurately, she runs into _him_. Neither of them is watching where they’re going, and the girl ends up spilling red wine all over Jongin’s white shirt.

“Oh my god,” she gasps, lurching backwards a second too late. She plonks her glass down on the closest flat surface (the floor). “Oh god, sunbaenim. I’m so sorry.” Her hands have frozen in mid-air. She doesn’t know what to do with them.

Somehow, Jongin can’t find it in himself to get mad. Yes, he just got here; yes, he’ll probably have to throw this shirt out; yes, his coordi’s going to kill him. But this girl looks flustered to the point of distraught, as though she’d made him bleed.

“Don’t worry about it,” he tells her, smiling so she knows he means it. “It’s nothing.”

That seems to make her even more upset. “I’m so, so sorry.” A palm cups itself over her forehead. “Oh god, I’m such a klutz.”

“It’s just a shirt,” Jongin says, gently taking her by the elbow so they can move away from the wine glass. Who knows what could happen next. “It’s Soojung, right?”

Her eyes light up for the briefest moment. “You remember me?” Then a shadow passes over her face like she’s realized something unpleasant, and it’s downcast-puppy-eyes all over again. “I’m so sorry, sunbaenim. I’m so embarrassed. I should have been more careful. I must look like a drunk mess right now…”

Actually, Jongin thinks she looks lovely, up close like this. She looks like a fairy (or something). She’s not wearing much makeup, just this sort of sheer red stuff on her lips, and her skin looks like his baby niece’s. He wonders if her lashes are real or the kind that stick on and peel off. They look pretty real to him.

_Chanyeol’s going to be so jealous when I tell him about this._

“…but I assure you,” the girl is saying, “it’s because I’ve always been such a horribly clumsy person. I spilled all the wine before I even got to taste it.” And then, in an undertone: “Ah, what a shame. It must have been delicious.” Immediately, her hand flies over her mouth. Her eyes are as wide as saucers. “Oh god. I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

She reminds Jongin so much of Jung-Ah, the younger of his two sisters. Jung-Ah looks cold and capable, but she’s just a knobby little lamb, still tripping over her shoelaces and losing scarves in random places. Even though she’s five years older, Jongin’s long assumed the role of protective oppa.

“It’s cute.” He hopes the compliment dispels her fears. “Just be careful next time so you don’t hurt yourself, okay?” 

The tension in her face ebbs. “Yes,” she says, gazing up at him with hazelnut ice cream eyes. “Thank you, sunbaenim.”

“Oppa will do,” Jongin says, like a benevolent senior would. He remembers something she’d mentioned in one of her MuBank spiels. “I’m only a year older than you, right?”

Soojung permits herself an infinitesimal smile. “Right.” Jongin reciprocates with a magnanimous one, just as she murmurs, “Oppa.”

Wednesday. Hongdae. Nine‘o’clock. Kyungsoo’s waiting for him in their old spot: the Webfoot Octopus close to the sculpture park. It’s dark in this low-ceilinged seafood joint and Jongin knows the owner. Hardly anyone disturbs them when they come here for dinner.

“Sorry I’m late.” Jongin slips into the seat across the small corner table. “I drove myself today and couldn’t find parking.”

Kyungsoo pours him a beer. “But you’re a terrible driver.”

“I’m fine.” Jongin stuffs his keys into his jeans. “Leave me alone.”

Kyungsoo’s smiling down at the table, like he’s rehashing an inside joke in his mind. “Sure.”

“Shut up, Soo.”

“How’s the album promotion going, Jonginnie?”

“Pretty good.” Jongin takes a long draught of his beer. “We were on Yu Huiyeol last night. Did I tell you we were doing that?”

“Yeah, you did. Let me know when the episode’s airing?”

“Will do.” Jongin eyes his friend meaningfully. “You’re still monitoring us?”

“Someone has to.” An arch look stretches over Kyungsoo’s face. “I’m the only male fanbase you’re working with—not counting your dads.”

Jongin’s hand is wet from the condensation on his beer mug. “Such bullshit.” A flick of the wrist, and the water droplets are on Kyungsoo’s face.

Kyungsoo flinches. When one of the droplets streams down his cheek, he curls his lip.

Jongin laughs, disregarding the threat completely. “I read an article on your drama ratings this morning. Talk about a grand finale.”

Kyungsoo dabs his face. “We couldn’t believe the numbers either.”

“I could,” Jongin says, all droll and confident, like he’s some sort of critic. “They do say you’re the best, Lee Bok Shil—the best in South Korea.” (“You’re the Best, Lee Bok Shil” is the title of Kyungsoo’s drama.)

“Don’t patronize me.” Kyungsoo tosses a crumpled tissue at Jongin, who dodges it narrowly. “I’ll revoke my membership to the New Feel website, you’ll see.”

Jongin steeples his hands, bowing his head in mock apology.

Kyungsoo seems to take that as a win. “I want the cheese octopus tonight. Finally off the starvation diet.” He calls out their usual order (plus the cheese octopus) to a passing server. “By the way, my manager saw this blind item in Dispatch that reminded him of you.”

Jongin huffs. In the four years he’s been working, he’s never had a scandal—not counting that non-issue of him being a snob. “Let me guess: keyboard-faithful rockstar runs off with a baby grand?”

“First of all,” Kyungsoo drawls, “you’re not a rockstar. John Mayer is a rockstar. He plays the blues. You’re a man-poodle who plays with Sehun.”

Jongin feigns offense, shaking out his hair. “Is it the perm?”

“Second, do you want to know or not?”

“ _Yes_.”

Kyungsoo takes a big gulp of beer that ends with an _ahh._ “Hyung showed it to me. It said: ‘Rookie Ms. A is showing interest in musician Mr. B. Unfortunately, Mr. B is oblivious. Mr. B has never been in a relationship. Ms. A, on the other hand, was with her last boyfriend—a senior performer in the same company—for four years.’”

Jongin sifts through the bowl of free peanuts on their table, nonplussed. “Am I supposed to be Mr. B?”

Kyungsoo rolls his eyes with great ceremony. “No, Jongin. You’re Ms. A, Jongin. You’ve the one who held down a boyfriend for four years, Jongin.”

“Is that so?” Jongin loves to press Kyungsoo’s buttons. “Was he handsome?”

“Not as handsome as me,” Kyungsoo retorts drily.

“No one’s as handsome as you,” Jongin muses, before he knows what he’s saying.

***

_Written in March 2017._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired, in spirit, by _La La Land._


End file.
